Osama's Last Stand
by fireand'chutes777
Summary: Late April, 2007. The terrorist cell al-Qaeda has launched a second devastating attack against the United States. ... With Special Forces scrambling, there's only one who can step up to this sitch...
1. The Day That Will Live in Infamy…Take IV

**Osama's Last Stand**

Rated **T** for language, violence

**Disclaimer:** All licensed characters belong to their respective owners. The character of Stephen Maturin belongs to Patrick O'Brian, of the Aubrey-Maturin novels, and Kim Possible belongs to Disney.

And if I owned _Disney's Kim Possible_, I'd be living in a bigger house. :P

**Author's note:** The world of "Osama's Last Stand," as you will soon find, is an alternate past. That is one problem with setting a timeline within the relatively near future and then constraining it to real-life objects and people. I started writing in January 2005; at my age, "forever away" is next Tuesday. By comparison, 2007 seemed waaaay down the line. Unfortunately, humanity got in the way and when 2007 finally rolled around, it didn't look too much different from 2005.

In this timeline, the Iraqi crisis was brought under control by winter 2006, largely due to Kim's assistance. Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, instead of being killed in an airstrike in June 2006, was captured by Kim in August 2005 (Chapter 3 alludes to this). As a result, the Al Askari Mosque bombing did not occur, and the mini civil war that was Iraq 2006 did not result. However, _because_ there was no "stress release" in 2006, Iraq continued to simmer and 2007 still required a troop surge. The deployment was still the same size, but the force was split between Afghanistan and Iraq, generating to less controversy, acrimony, and bitterness on the home front.

The drop in Iraq tensions produced more conciliation at home, leading the WTC Memorial Committee to stop squabbling by December 19th, 2005 (without coincidence, the date in 2001 that Ground Zero finally stopped smoldering) and get to work on completing the Freedom Tower.

The 787 experienced no electrical woes and was delivered in January 2007 as one of the most widely-purchased airliners in history.

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy it, and please leave a review!

**1. The Day Which Will Live in Infamy… Take IV**

Monday, April 23, 2007  
Boston, Massachusetts 

Logan International Airport  
8:46 AM EST

The morning of April 23, 2007, dawned sunny, warm, and clear. People across the United States of America got up, ate breakfast, and went to school or work. Cupping their eyes against the glare, commuters grumbled that yet another beautiful day was going to be wasted at the office. All was busy, hectic, and normal at Boston International, home of the Red Sox. A scrolling ticker above the arrivals gate displayed a temperature of 70 degrees, 30 percent humidity, and the day's forecasted high of 85.

The morning was so normal and mundane, in fact, no one noticed or cared as a scattered group of fifteen Middle-Eastern men passed through security with scarcely a 'beep' from the detectors, shoe scanners, or guards with wands, and without luggage. After presenting passports verifying American citizenship and their tickets, they boarded Boeing 787 Flight 34 from Boston to LA.

The 787-8 was an all-new, fuel-efficient, composite-built airplane with a range of 9,445 miles. Christened in early January 2007, it had a seating capacity of 223 passengers and a cruise speed of 561 miles an hour. Because it was built long after the 11th of September, 2001, and since no attack on the American homeland had occurred since then, the doors to the pilot's cabin were built of composite and aluminum, instead of the reinforced steel of earlier jetliners.

Coincidentally, all fifteen of the men sat in first class seats near the cockpit door.

At 9:00 AM sharp, Flight 34 disengaged from the telescoping boarding ramp and taxied into position on the tarmac. At 9:15, after clearance from the tower, it throttled up to full power, screamed down the runway, and lifted up into the wild blue, headed for Los Angeles.

Flight 34  
20,000 feet  
9:31

The pilot turned off the "Seatbelt ON" sign. Stifling early-morning yawns, jetsetters rumpled open newspapers, began tapping on Blackberries, and cranked up their iPods. Drowsy silence diffused through the cabin, broken only by a few squabbling children back in economy class. A wristwatch beeped "9:30."

One of the Mideastern men carefully eased out of his seat and made his way to the rear of the plane, gently muttering apologies as he squeezed between obese passengers sitting in the isle seats. Reaching the aft section of the airliner, he leaned against the restroom bulkhead, patiently waiting for the red "occupied" light to flicker off.

Sitting in the rearmost row of seats, a broad-shouldered man in a Hawaiian shirt swiveled around to glare suspiciously at him. The standing man noticed the gaze after a moment and twiddled his fingers at him in a small, reassuring wave, while delicately mouthing the letters _A-C-L-U_. Scowling, the Hawaiian-shirted man turned back around front. Crossing his arms for a moment, the Mideastern man swayed slightly and put a hand on the opposite wall to steady himself against a bit of turbulence.

In unison, all fourteen of the other Middle Eastern men stood, holding their right shoes in their hands. Pressing a tread knob on the sole, a five-inch nalgene-plastic knife slid out the back of the rubber heel. The nalgene could be sharpened to an edge as strong and keen as steel, and was not detectable to the metal or plastic-explosive detectors.

Every eye in the compartment widened in absolute horror. The man in the Aloha shirt dived out of his seat and into the isle, drawing a SIG-Sauer P229 from beneath his shirt. Distracted by the activity up front, he didn't notice as the leaner stepped forward, shoe in hand. Wrapping an arm around the man's head, he jammed the knife deep into the marshal's neck and ripped sideways, opening him up like a Pez dispenser. The agent slumped forward into the isle. A woman screamed. The terrorist leader broke the pistol from the agent's dead hand and shot her.

Five or six passengers made to stand up to fight, but the terrorists stabbed them before they could get out of their seats. A special suicide group raced down the isles and threw themselves on the other air marshals as they drew their weapons, stabbing frantically. Three were mortally shot, but managed to slit their assigned marshals' throats before they went down. Gouging passengers in the face, other hijackers recovered the pistols and started picking off resisters. While most of the surviving terrorists covered the passengers and prevented an uprising, five worked on the door. They threw their weight onto it until it cracked and smashed off its hinges. They were momentarily halted by the hail of gunfire streaming from the pilots' weapons. Halted until, of course, the flight crew ran out of ammunition. The hijackers then silenced the pilots before they could reload, took control of the instruments, and reloaded the handguns, keeping them trained on the remaining civilians.

A new name had joined the ranks of Peal Harbor, Oklahoma City, and 9/11: 4/23.

The attack had officially begun.

FAA Control Center  
9:40

Rick Price sat bored, staring into the screen of the Northeastern Quadrant flight paths. Slowly scanning his eyes down the circular LCD display, his pupils noticed an odd j-curving flight path, labeled "Flight 34." He warily picked up the surface-to-air communicator next to the computer.

"Hello, Flight 34, do you read?" he said. "I noticed you've diverged from your planned flight route and –"

A loud, rough, celebratory voice blasted through the earpiece. "Wakie-Wakie America! We're _baaack_! HAHAHA!"

"Who–who _is_ this? You're not Captain Beauregard!"

The phone roared back, "Of course not, you stupid infidel, THIS IS AL-QAEDA!"

Rick paled, using all his professional control to war with a sick horror settling into his stomach. "_Excuse me?_" Instinctive protocol finally burned through his shock, and he began grouping one-handedly for the NORAD contact button.

"Yes, yes, you stupid pig!" the earpiece screamed, "We have planes – yes, you heard me right, _planes_! We will plunge your cities into mourning–!"

Behind him, Rick started to hear startled cries from other flight plan controllers.

"787 Flight 52 from Boston to LA diverging course!"

"787 Flight 668 from Boston to San Francisco diverging course!"

"787 Flight 103 from Boston to Salt Lake City diverging course!"

"787 Flight 74 from O'Hare to Richmond diverging course!"

The mad ranting continued, "- we will rain Hell from the sky! We will make your streets run red with blood! To your doom today, America! _Allāhu akbar! Allāhu akbar! Allāhu-_"

The line cut out abruptly. Rick slowly removed his headset, stared blankly at it for a few seconds, and placed it gently on the desktop. His brain felt numb and useless as he stood and walked to a PA mount. His movements did not feel his own, and he stared down at his feet. It was as though he were a clay marionette someone had jammed with sticks and was walking about, stiffly. Rick lifted the handset and pressed "Loudspeaker All" with his thumb.

"This is controller Rick Price." His voice wasn't his own, either. The real Rick wanted to scream "_Holy_ _shit! Holy_ _shit!_" until his vocal cords gave out. "This is not a drill. We have a multi-plane suicide hijacking. Repeat, this is not a drill. NORAD integration has been activated." He paused for a moment. "This is condition Baker. Prepare for war."

Washington, DC  
White House; Pennsylvania Avenue

Blue Room  
10:15 AM

"…Mr. President, we have reports of several airplanes heading this way; we need to get you below-ground _now._"

President George W. Bush turned from the Secret Service agent to glance quickly through the high mullioned windows. "Yes, yes, I know. Make the Homeland Security color 'red,' and – Holy Longhorns, hit the deck! 'Ere she comes!"

Flight 34 tore low over the suburbs of Fairfax County and Alexandria. The roar caused many people to look up in surprise, and remembering where they had heard it before, gape in horror. Media cameras trained eagerly upward – there would be no crackpots shouting about CIA missiles or planted explosives this go around. The airplane streaked closer, closer toward the city, towards the hallowed white house in its center, aiming for the middle of the famous white porch on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Dropping from the sky like two gray wraiths, twin F-16s from Andrews Air Force Base rolled into position on the 787's flanks. The fighters clung grimly to their positions above the jumbo, crisscrossing from wingtip to wingtip as the Boeing skidded left and right, trying to buck them off.

Flight leader Major Zachary Jacobson exchanged looks with younger Second Lieutenant Brian Wegerbauer as they swung near each other, then keyed his mike. "Flight 34, this is the United States Air Force," he said quickly, going through the standardized motions. He knew with a sick gut sense the gesture was worthless, but it would at least boost PR that they'd _tried_. "You are entering restricted airspace. Last warning. Bear to heading oh-four-seven, angels three, or you will be destroyed." He released the transmit button.

There was no reply. He heard an echoing, airy rushing sound over the airwaves, punctuated by sharp taps as the off-cradle transceiver twacked against the flight panel. The background was filled with Arabic shouting, deep, ramming thuds against a cockpit barricade, and distant screaming. He forlornly ended the connection, feeling ill.

Screwing up his face, Zachary radioed back to his wingman. "No joy."

The junior officer swore. "Damn..."

Abruptly the D.C. proper rolled under their wingtips and the white spots of the Capitol, Washington Monument, and White House shone brightly on the horizon, closing rapidly.

A female voice broke over their encrypted frequency. "Gamma Flight One, this is TRACON," said a military air controller urgently, "Tracking bogey bearing oh-one-oh, angels oh-five, ten clicks out, terminal forty seconds."

Wegerbauer's voice crackled through his headset. "Do we have weapons-free?"

Zachary tapped down a digital message center. "We have weapons-free clearance."

His attention was shattered as a keening lock tone whined through his headset. "_Shit!"_ The chase had come within range of the White House's missile defense grid. He threw the plane into a barrel roll. "Transmitting blindguard! Friendlies! Friendlies!" Jacobson screamed over the frequency as he saw missile batteries sprouting up from beneath rhododendrons and boxwoods, "_Buddy spike, repeat, buddy spike! Disengage! Disengage!"_ The White House's defense system could have easily destroyed the airliner, but with his massive heat signature, the missiles could just as readily lock onto his own jet. In response to his call, the SAM installations powered down, leaving them to deal with the rouge airplane.

Forced wide by his anti-missile maneuver, he looked down through his bubble canopy and saw the White House dead-ahead, little more than a mile out. Below him, the 787 dived sharply, gaining speed. "Weg, Weg, take it down! I don't have LoS!"

Brian twitched his rudder so he tracked toward the airliner, slightly off parallel, and shiftedhis HUD reticule with the stick's hat switch. His target lock squealed gruffly, building rapidly in volume as the lock solidified.

Three hundred yards and closing from the 787's fuselage, he could see faces peering out the windows. He looked away quickly. "Sir, the civilians…?"

"This is your commanding officer! Take it down!"

As tears began to slide down his face, Brian's body reacted as trained – like a machine. Without hesitation, his thumb deftly flicked a molly-guard off the top of his flight stick and mashed down on the trigger.

"Fox One away."

An AIM-7 Sparrow dropped from his weapons bay with a gasping _whiiissshhh_, zipped across the intervening space on a trail of pale smoke, and burrowed into Flight 34's starboard wing root.

The wing ripped off in a fireball, and the large widebody airplane plunged downward.

It slammed into the South Lawn between the fountain and tennis court, creating a huge crater and ball of flame. Its resulting shock wave blew out windows up and down Constitution Avenue, scorched the facing White House side black, and battered the structure with flying debris.

The President and his Secret Service detail crawled out from under a flipped chair into what was left of the Blue Room.

Turning to his bodyguard, the President calmly said to him, "Call the Pentagon and Capitol to send for air cover and evacuation, and then, please, call my wife."

NAS Willow Grove

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

10:21 AM

Will Rikker rapped desperately on the metal lip of his bird's titanium bathtub with his knuckles. "C'mon...! C'mon...!" He leaned over and looked down at the grounds crew frantically cramming fuel and weapons into his slate-gray A-10. They didn't look up, but the tempo increased yet another notch.

"How you doin', Skinner!"

Will looked over. His wingman Joseph Yadley wore a similar stricken expression as his crew funneled links of ammunition into his Hog's belly to feed the massive tank-killer in the nose. "Getting' there, Leech! I've got fuel, Guns, and three Sparrows! You?"

"Just fuel and – " He looked down at the head groundsman, who flashed a thumbs-up. " – Guns!" He suddenly went rigid as he heard something come over his headset. "_Shit!_ Shitshitshitshit..." He broke off to frantically wave away the loader crew, and further distress was inaudible over the crash-start of his engines. His canopy went down, and Will saw him put his mike to his mouth. "They hit the White House...! I'm going!" Chocks out, the flight crew cleared him with a wave, and Leech began his taxi roll.

All the ugly language in the world flashed to Will's mind as his canopy also went down and the loaders scattered, but only the animal groan that came out seemed truly adequate. "What're you going up with?"

"Just.. just... guns. I'll fly myself into them if it comes to it."

Will's twin engines screamed as he cleared the tower, and he fell in just behind his wingman. "I've got a few missiles. Let me go in first, bud."

They banked tightly and shot southward. Windows broke in the city below as four turbofan engines went to full emergency power.

Washington DC

10:40 AM

"Gamma Flight One, be advised, two, uh, bogies are still at large... I keep losing them when they duck below radar level. At last squawk, they were headed southwest at four hundred and fifty knots."

Zach clenched his teeth, trying not to let his anxiety flow into the microphone. A direct connect into the FAA communications grid was a major step up over last time, but military displays and civilian consoles had different needs, setups, and indicators. Hers had better resolution and lower radar sweep, but the operator was intimidated and frightened out of her wits.

"... Eee, Gamma! Two bogies, due north, heading southwest at five hundred knots! I think it's them!"

"Thanks, Control. I see them on my display." Zach flipped his warbird out of his patrol figure-eight.

"Let's get 'em," snarled Brian. "Weapons free."

"Weapons free."

"Trudy Three, be advised, two, repeat, two bogies in the area. We... lost them again, sorry. They should be on a heading southwest of you... In the two-o-clock by your vector."

"Thanks a lot, TRACON..." Will growled as he frantically scanned the urban blob below, a little too impertinently for the taste of the officer on the other end. The military's civilian tracking capability was rough, and his traffic control hadn't managed to link with the FAA's grid yet. His eyes picked up on a sparkle to his thirteen-hundred.

"God, there they are!" He radioed Leech and armed weapons control, then glanced down at the icon of the assumed contact on his tac display. "Wait..."

A building missile lock suddenly snarled in his ears.

"I've got the bastards painted, Zach!" Brian shouted. A second later, his mouth parted slightly as an eruption of lockout data scattered over his HUD. "What in th – _Shit!_" He twisted his plane sideways and barely managed to keep himself from ramming an A-10 haring in the opposite direction. Zack pulled up and dodged out of the way of a second fighter.

"This is Major Zachary Jacobson and wingman, 113th Wing, Andrews A-F-B. Who the hell are you?"

"Sergeant Will Rikker and wingman, 111th Wing out of Willow Grove. Don't kill us, please."

"Mission profile?"

"Chasing after the mothers who put that goddamn hole over yonder in the White House."

"We... we... managed to stop them short."

"Oh, God."

"We got reports of two more bandits north of us."

"Same here, but to the south."

"You guys, maybe? Did Control get its wires crossed?"

"Uh...?"

The FAA controller's squeak of a voice broke over Zach's com line. "_Did you get them?_"

"Um, we think there might've been a mix-up. You vectored us toward two friendlies coming down to help us."

"What? No, God dammit, they're both right on top of you!"

Rikker glanced out his canopy as his eyes picked up on a large unmistakable flash streaking down their collective west, far below radar level. "Oh, _fuck._"

Pentagon  
10:43 AM

Flight 52 flew wingman to Flight 34 down the Eastern Seaboard, then diverged toward its separate target. Blasting over the Potomac at close to top speed, the airplane started its final death dive, the corner apex opposite the intended impact point guiding the pilot down neatly as a runway marker. Panicking and caught off-guard by the botched directions, the four fighter airplanes now in the air swerved on their tails, racing to intercept the plane before it reached its target.

Will had gotten off the mark first, on full afterburner. "No, no, no...! Fox One! Fox One!" Two of his three Sparrows dropped from their wing cradles with only the scantest of locks. One lost it and veered away, blowing up harmlessly over the river. The other, launched from a bad angle, sliced into 52's vertical stabilizer and peppered the empennage with shrapnel, but the ship was too close, it had become committed...

"_No!"_

-

Lieutenant Dobbs, of the Army's experimental weapons program, sat at his desk in the E Ring of the Pentagon. He'd had a rather odd experience involving a Neutronalizer and a Doctor Drakken, among others, and now confined himself to deskwork. As he sifted through a large stack of budget reports, he heard a loud, low-pitched roar outside his window. Glancing up, his eyes froze on what was outside the sheet of tempered glass. The nose of a large commercial airliner was about 100 yards and closing from his face.

"_What th'-"_ was all his brain had time to jam out.

The airplane exploded into the north face of the Pentagon at 590 miles an hour, engulfing the entire side in an avionics fuel inferno. Unimpeded, as Flight 77 had, by a ground strike, the body of the plane speared through the rings of the building into the Zero Point, the open area in the middle, target of Cold War Soviet missiles. Jet fuel started fires in the heart of the building.

Then, improvements added post-9/11 kicked in. The hallways lit up to guide survivors out of the building. High-powered sprinkler heads started to contain, but not stop, the searing flames.

National Mall  
10:44 AM

On the heels of the Pentagon and White House attacks, Flight 668 dipped low over the Potomac River and the Jefferson and Lincoln Memorials.

Rikker skidded his plane through a plume that would have choked the delicate engines of the F-16s and nearly blacked out from the gees. He straightened out and shot toward the DC center, their attackers now clearly visible against the blue sky. The chaos and speed made it far too dangerous to bring out missiles again.

Joseph's breathing was tight in his flight mask as he readied himself to bodily intercept the hijackers - but then he remembered what his bird was built to do. "Skinner! Follow me! Let's ventilate it!"

Zachary and Brian fell back slightly as the two Warthogs lined up their attack pattern over the Mall. As they did so, it became clear what Flight 668's target was: The Capitol. "OK, aim for the cockpit and walk it back to the engines… One, two… hup!"

Two GAU-8 Avengers spun to life, and a cloud of gun dust trailed out behind them. The hail of Gatling fire chewed the Boeing's fuselage apart. As the bullets raked backward, Joseph forced himself to keep his eyes open as debris, oxygen, and gouts of blood spewed through the holes. After passing through the jetliner, their thirty millimeter rounds plowed a yard into the pavement below. Under the pounding, both 787 engines blew off and the wings shredded in half. Disintegrating, the airship plummeted into the rich green of the Mall, just clipping the Washington Monument. It plowed, ironically, into the September 11th Memorial, located between the Monument and Capitol, and exploded. It blasted a dark brown-and-black crater in the dirt, spewing metallic shards and organic fragments, and caused surrounding tourists and lawmakers to scream and run in panic.

Above, Joseph "Leech" Yadley fought to keep himself from vomiting all over his cockpit. He managed. Barely.

"God, god, god, god _damn_ _it._" He cut his frequency down to "Skinner" for a moment. "Will..."

"Christ, Leech, don't call me that. You know what my name is up here." He sounded close to tears.

"Will... I'm never doing that again. If there's another one... and we have to take it down... I'm going into it. Because I'm never going to do that again." Regaining himself, he keyed up to the F-16 pair. "Major... Major, bogy down."

The line was quiet for a moment, and when the voice came, it was soft. "I see. Confirmed. Bogy down." He sighed. "TRACON doesn't have anything else in the area at the moment for us. Pull up to angels twelve and we'll set up CAP. Brian's suite can serve an AWACS and you two run picket. I'll watch city center." All in the loop could hear his next sigh, could almost feel his scrunched eyes. "Guys... I'll take the next one."

New York, New York  
Manhattan Island  
Freedom Tower  
10:30 AM

The Freedom Tower, after a far-ahead-of-schedule completion date in late 2006, became the tallest building in the world at 1,776 feet. Office space was contained in a large percentage of the building, and a glass spire completed the rest. Built in the unseen shadow and footprint of the Twin Towers, the building had all-new safety features, including escape tubes that could be thrown out of windows, reinforced heat-resistant support beams, a massive fire-suppression system, and spacious, brightly lit stairwells.

All of these features were about to be put to the ultimate test.

New York City, with alerts of the D.C. attack pinging across cell phones and laptops, immediately activated its Air National Guard and began preparations to evacuate every major skyscraper in the city, starting with the Freedom Tower. Emergency services hustled downtown. Before everyone could get into position, however, the now-familiar death roar of an approaching jumbo-jet could be heard over the skyline. Members of FDNY Ladder 49 and NYPD watched in horror as Flight 103 slammed full-throttle into the base of the spire. The resulting explosion mirrored the one of Flight 11 six years before. The building creaked, and swayed from the shock, but then stabilized.

As the blast echoed off skyscrapers and reverberated down canyon streets, F-18s from McGuire Air Force Base howled overhead, almost clipping rooftops, just a few seconds too late.

Shards of glass, plastic and paper began to rain down. Escape tubes popped from windows, signaling that the surviving occupants were leaving the premises. A massive fire started in the core of the building as jet fuel leaked downward. The firefighters, with a thrill of dread, remembered that they would have to climb up there to put it out...

Freedom Tower  
10:30 AM  
31st Floor

Brittany Squevens glanced up from her computer assignment (Bi-Quarterly Review and Inventory of Miscellaneous Employee Workplace Expenses), out the spacious, sun-streaked window to the bustling street below, and shuddered.

_How in the world did I end way up here?_

She hated skyscrapers, ever since that fateful day in September when an airliner sliced through her building, the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Her office had been located two floors below the impact zone. Miraculously, she and a handful of co-workers escaped the crumbling inferno minutes before it collapsed. She never knew why. A Grace from God, she figured. Ever since, she'd had a deathly fear of anything tall. She promptly sold the two-story Colonial she and her spouse lived in and bought a soothing one-story ranch. Lately, she had developed an abhorrence of Ferris Wheels, scenic mountain overlooks, and catwalks. Brittany even considered coal-mining or subway construction as a nice, peaceful job.

When she applied for a new job at the prescription drug firm SquabbMirlCo, she _specifically_ requested not to be placed in high-rises, and that she be kept on the ground floor, preferably in the lobby by large doors. Somehow, there was a mistake in the internal paperwork, and she wound up on the thirty-first floor of the tallest building in the world.

In a fit of paranoia, she committed to memory the tower's series of emergency stairwells, the location of emergency notification and alarms, and the color-coding of the hallways and elevators. She kept a small first-aid kit on her person at all times, and had a bag of "grabbables" stored under her desk.

She took another fleeting glance into the dappled spring day.

_Odd, what's that black speck?_

As she paused and squinted, a strange, low-resonate thrum began to tingle through the tips of her fingernails, slowly overpowering the drowsy buzz of the overhead compact-fluorescents.

Turing back to her work, her mind suddenly put two and two together.

_Wait a minute... black speck + tall skyscraper... equals..._

Her eyes widened in horrid realization –

**HAAAAA****WBOOOOOMMMMM!**

The deep, loud noise reverberated down the building. Tables, chairs, people, and light fixtures rocked as if in an earthquake. The building lurched sideways, computers shifting about six inches to the left. A hundred coffee cups simultaneously sloshed off desk edges, shattering with a single dry crash. Several people screamed and clutched their desks. Everyone, including her, snapped their heads upward and gaped in confusion and terror. Seconds later, large chunks of structural aluminum, Plexiglas, airplane parts, and flaming shards of paper tumbled down the widow beside her.

_Shhiiiit.__ Not again._

Coming to her senses, she shot the chair out behind her, so forcefully it hit the cubicle wall and fell over, and went to her knees to grab her scram kit. Laptop bag clutched against her chest, she dashed between cubicles to the fireproof elevator portal. Pausing for a moment, she turned back to her colleges. Only a handful, some of them Eagle Scouts, had actually taken action; the rest were still staring, as if sheep, shocked and mute, at the ceiling.

_Damn, don't they get it? They're New Yorkers, for heaven's sake!_

Frantically casting her eyes for something to snap them out of their trance, her pupils fell on a small red box screwed to the wall –

::Pull in case of fire. Use Only in the Event of an Emergency::

_For once, I really think this counts…_

She pulled on the small fluorescent lever. Ink sprayed across her palm. Instantly, a piercing wail filled the room, accompanied by flashing strobes over the stairwells and elevators.

"Ummm, we're having a surprise fire drill! Let's go, people! The boss always complains when we don't all leave the tower!"

Stunned brains finally latching onto something practiced and familiar, the workers mechanically grabbed coats and suitcases and herded toward the safety corridors. The sensible coworkers calmed the crowd and maneuvered them down the steps.

After thirty flights of stairs, each stair stretching a mile, each minute seeming an hour, ears straining to hear thousands of tons of metal and glass smashing down onto fragile organs and backs, they reached the lobby, their ranks swelled at each story. Brittany dashed across the haze-filled room and out the large quarto doors, firefighters running in through the other side.

Scrambling to the street, she turned and froze. The upper fourth of the tower was engulfed in flame; shrouded in smoke. It mirrored the crash of six years previously, and yet it didn't. There were no bodies flying from windows – instead, scores of yellow tubes, like the wilted trunks of some bizarre elephant, dangled from the windows. The fiery maelstrom looked different on a cool-hued glass and steel structure. Sleek fighter jets circled tightly, almost apologetically, around the column of smoke billowing into the sky.

Broken out of her shock by a police officer, she was hustled to a fire truck already loaded with survivors to be evacuated out of the area. Emblazoned on her mind in the confusion was the policeman's nametag: "Pollar-" but the truck moved before she could scan the rest.

As the vehicle spanned the Brooklyn Bridge, she saw part of the spire flake off and crumble to the ground. A second catastrophe seemed imminent. Lowering her head from the image into cupped hands, a trickle of silver tears began to ooze between her fingertips.

Freedom Tower  
10:48

The spire collapsed from the impact with a smash, an umbrella of shattering Plexiglas and aluminum, followed by an ominous, rumbling cloud of the first upper stories. The immense heat had melted the fragile framework. The collision severed the sprinkler system above the impact, but it was still functioning below and kept the fire and collapse from spreading down the building. The Freedom Tower had suffered massive damage, but it was beginning to be contained. FDNY's finest dragged hoses up the wide stairways to combat the blaze. The NYPD cleared the area around the complex in fear of another collapse. The giant structure had gotten the stuffing knocked out of him, and third-degree burns, but he would survive.

The howl and scream of sirens had visited New York and D.C. for a second time, and they were headed somewhere new…

FAA Control Center  
10:41

Rick Price's supervisor leaned anxiously over his shoulder, staring into the comptroller's view screen. "Is that all of them?"

"No, sir. There's still one flight left…" He pulled up the airplane's transponder data, which the hijackers had forgotten to turn off. "Flight 74 from O'Hare."

"Where's it headed?"

"Well, sir, it looks like a town called…. Middleton."

The supervisor squinted at the dot nestled in Illinois's southern tip. "All the way out there? Gawd dammit, we'll never get air support there in time!"

Middleton  
Possible Family home  
9:52 AM CST

The large house was silent, except for the blare of the big-screen TV. James had already left for the space center, and Kim, Jim and Tim were at school. Anne Possible sat inert, mouth agape, stunned, in front of the screen. A patient file lay open on the coffee table, forgotten. She watched in shock as the news channel replayed the Freedom Tower, Pentagon, White House, and Capitol crashes in a horrid, explosive loop. Her mind flashed to September 11th.

_God, I thought it wouldn't happen like this again. Not this. I thought we'd learned..._

Ordinarily, Mrs. Dr. Possible was one very tough cookie. As a neurosurgeon, she had to be, since most police shootings and suicide attempts involved brain matter. Her profession forced her to seal off and rapidly forget images that would break a lesser person. As a rule, she didn't even ask for the names of severe trauma cases until it became clear that they would pull through.

September 11th, however, was different. As an agent of healing, the waste of human life disgusted her. As a mother, the sense of insecurity and indiscriminate violence was worse. To cap it off, she'd attended a medical conference in Manhattan in late August, 2001. The culmination of the seminar had been a trip to the South Tower's observation deck. Mrs. Possible remembered she had leaned over the railing and idly thought it would be rather nasty if someone had to jump.

She was jerked out of her reverie by a sound. A low, spine-vibrating sound. A loud, growing roar of a sound. She knew of only one place she had heard that sound before - an airport, and it was the sound of a jet airplane swooping in for landing.

Flight 74  
805 feet AGL  
9:52:30 

Frank Dohanny, a large man in his late 50s, slumped in Aisle Seat 16. He sat with his head in hands, tears in his eyes, mumbling the Lord's Prayer. His granddaughter was to be married that evening, and he had nearly missed the plane. He'd been so happy he'd made the flight...

Suddenly, out the window, the corner of his eye glimpsed the rolling scenery below.

He stiffened. In a snap, he knew where he was. He knew what this plane's target was. He had seen it on CNN many occasions. And he knew that this plane could not, would not, must not reach its target. Frank whispered his plan to the surrounding passengers. Even if hopeless, they would go down as The One That Fought Back. He'd make his granddaughter proud...

Breaking off from a stream of feverish prayers, one of the guards looked up, alarmed. "Ey! _Ey!_ _What are you doing? No talk! No talk!"_

To distract him, an accountant from Milwaukee a few seats away jumped up with a Rambo yell. He was cut down instantly. Upon his gesture, the passengers erupted and made to tackle their captors. The hijackers gave a yell and backed away in surprise, opening fire.

"End it now! End it now!" one of them screamed forward in Arabic.

"Not yet! Not yet! _We're almost there!_"

"_End it now!"_

"_Not yeeeeetttttt!"_

To battle cries of "_Beamer!", "Dohanny!", _and _"Anything's Pooossssiiiible!" _the entire cabin threw themselves into bullets and smashed the terrorists across arm rests. Yes, there it was! An opening in the cockpit guard!

Dohanny made a lunge for it. Clawing and fighting through the muddle of terrorists to the cabin door, he reached an open space in the cockpit. Ignoring sharp bites in his legs and back that he knew were bullets, he made a final, desperate flying leap at the pilot.

"Arrg, what have you DONE!" the hijacker screamed as Frank smashed into him, slamming the control yoke up and out of his hands.

The plane lurched upward, the windscreen's view changing from the Possible's front door to the heavily treed mountain behind it. The terrorist grabbed the controls, but it was too late; they were too high.

Middleton  
Possible house  
9:53

Mrs. Possible dashed out the front door and gasped. A huge jet passed less than 500 feet over her head, seeming as though it would clip the roof. The airplane's slipstream threw her to the ground. When she looked up, she could see in infinite detail every plate, bolt, rivet, and screw. She could see the landing gear, flight surfaces, and her reflection in the polished fiberglass side. Her head followed the plane's progress, as if in a dream, over her house and into the green mountain behind it.

The hillside exploded in a rush of red, orange, yellow, smoke, and noise. The explosion's shockwave lifted her off the driveway and kicked her into the street. Intense heat and flame barbequed the house's shingles and blew out windows all down the block. It ripped and shredded at the rear side of the house, past the siding, past the tarpaper, plywood, until, oddly, it reached a face of steel. The explosion ablated the surface, but stopped its destruction.

Mrs. Possible levered herself up on a bleeding elbow and looked back. There was a huge hole in the hill; a dark scar marring the green. All that was left of the plane were small fragments; nothing more.

For a moment, silence reigned. Then, as Anne regained her senses, came sharp, crackling jet fuel brush fires, blaring car alarms, distant shouted swears, and the close, personal sound of her own dry sobs.

Washington, D.C.  
Beneath East Wing  
Presidential Emergency Operations Center  
1:04 PM EST

The President sighed resignedly. "…All right, play the tape."

Secretary of Defense Robert Gates slid the DVD into the player and nudged his way back through the packed room to his seat. All the major generals, intelligence experts, their interns, and chiefs of staff were squeezed into the little room to view the latest al-Qaeda press release.

The reinforced bunker quieted as the terrorist cell's leader, Osama bin Laden, flickered onto the screen. He had abandoned the robes and finery of his 2005 tapes, and returned to his army garb and infamous AK-47. His face broke into an evil leer.

"Good afternoon, America. Unless you are watching this after dark, then good evening." He chuckled grimly, and continued. "How do you like my preemptive strike? I give my complements to Mr. Bush for that term.

"You are probably wondering why I have attacked you. The reason is clear: yet again you have become arrogant!" Bin Laden took a few deep breaths. "You defy us and _dare_ to build a tower upon the remains of the ones we destroyed! You invade our sacred lands and force your imperialistic, _haraam_ ways down our people's throats! Your heathen conquests defile our Holy Land, destroy our property, and desecrate our shrines! You harm Muslims! _American blood must be spilt for these actions!_" He spat onto the floor. "And then you turn around and try to give the women rights! _Rights!_ This. must. be. stopped!" he shouted. "Just look at your homeland. You are obese, polluting, greedy, and import the world's resources and export none back! You live in luxury and happiness while billions live in poverty! Your existence is a stain upon the world! You allow women to walk uncovered, without the accompaniment or consent of the man! You allow infidels worse than yourselves to live unhampered!" His face darkened. "And, worst of all, you have allowed the Jews to gain a foothold! They are corrupting your government, your economy, your daily life! They are not kept at home and monitored, but allowed to walk free as if they were equal to the Holy!"

The room gave a communal, involuntary snarl at what the lunatic was spouting.

Osama continued, "For all this you must be punished! This is why we bomb with airplanes! To teach you a lesson! And the best part is, you can't do anything to stop me! For all your technology and your money and your men, you haven't found me in six years; what makes you think you will now?" He laughed tauntingly. "Praise be to Allah! _Allāhu Akbar__!_"

His face fell and returned to normal. Facing into the camera, he said, "Al-Geera, stop the tape." He got up off the pillows, brushed lint from his army jacket, and strolled off-screen. The camera continued to stare at the vacant array of poufs, the running time/date bug the only thing breaking the monotony.

After a few expectant seconds, the commandos looked at each other in surprise and confusion. Dick Cheney leaned over and whispered the obvious in Bush's ear, "The camera's still running!"  
The President nodded and shooed him off.

The video slowly swiveled from the set of drapes and pillows, past an apparently second-story room, and settled looking out a window, with a patch of blue sky visible. In the distance, morning sun peeked over a mountain range, playing havoc with the camera's contrast sensor. This view lasted for about thirty seconds, before a jumble of panicky Arab voices broke the silence and the camera went black.

After gazing for a moment at the blank screen, thinking, Bush turned to Chief of Staff Joshua Bolten. "...Whaddya figure of that last bit?"

Bolten snorted. "Arabs, sir." Chuckles made the rounds, followed by some nastier racial slurs.

The President waved a hand. "Later, boys, later… John?" he barked to Director of National Intelligence John McConnell.

"Mr. President?"

"When did this tape arrive?"

"About an hour ago, sir. An unknown white female delivered it to the necessary persons, who then screened it for hazmat. They didn't turn up anything, so it was rushed to you. We're checking security camera footage for the plant, and we should have a bingo on our mark before dinner."

"Any pie-in-the-sky guesses?"

"I'd say a home-grown, sir. The video has a very recent time-stamp on it; no more than two weeks old. The region-five proves it was made somewhere overseas, but to get it to us so quickly, they'd have to've sent it here before the attacks..." He shook his head. "They had this whole damn thing planned right down to the press release."

There were a few seconds of stunned silence, and then one of the intern's hands shot into the air. "Mr. President, sir, sorry to butt in, but could you rewind the feed a little? I thought I saw something." His mentor glared.

"Whasser name, son?" the President asked.

"Jeff, sir. Jeff Redfern."

"You're the one who launched a missile into that al-Qaeda ammo dump, ain't you?"

He grinned. "Yessir."

"Continue."

Condoleezza Rice hit the rewind button on the DVD player. Jeff moved from his seat to within a few inches of the TV screen as the feed wriggled backward. He gave the "keep going" motion until the patch of blue sky appeared onscreen. He suddenly gave the "Freeze!" motion.

"Here it is!" he exclaimed excitedly, squinting into the screen. "Here," he said again, tapping the onscreen window. Thrown into deep contrast by the sun's blinding rays, a tiny speck was visible in the sky above his finger.

Bush leaned forward. "Rodgers," he said, turning to one of the senior intelligence officials with a laptop, "Can you zoom that without losing resolution?"

"I'll try, Mr. President." Rodgers spent the next few minuets hooking a variety of cables between the TV and his laptop, including an Ethernet cable between his computer and the wall, and a few after that frantically double-clicking, opening windows and applications, and enhancing the image.

"Maybe it's a bird?" suggested one of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

"Nah…" muttered Rodgers, fixated on the screen, "Too big… A bird wouldn't have even shown up..." Several minutes later, he sat back slightly. "You are not going to believe this…" he said into the silent, expectant room, "I think we're looking at one of our own Predator drones."

Gates recovered first. "Does it have any identification?"

Rodgers pulled up a few more windows until a large spreadsheet appeared onscreen. "Dunno… even with my best efforts, it was still really pixilated. I was able to ID as a Pred from the tailfins and bulb on the front… I'm currently winging a pic around Langley with the Ethernet connection to see if they can match anything to our profile shot."

After a ten minute wait, an email pinged his inbox. His face fell a few seconds later. "No positive single-asset ID. No weapons, either. From all they could tell from the shape, this particular one was an early scout model."

"Can you triangulate its position?" asked the President.

"With the GPS? Using just a picture? No." He lapsed into silence, staring hard into the screencap, chin cupped in one hand.

"Want me to pull up flight records of the last three weeks of Pred surveillance flights?" asked a CIA spook, already digging for his laptop bag.

Rodgers wordlessly held up a hand, leaning in closer to the laptop screen and squinting. "Thanks…. but…." He remained pensively quiet, concentrating. In the tense quiet, flushes of nervous heat ran up his neck and cheeks as he realized that everybody in the room, including the President and his veep, were waiting on _him_.

"...Anybody here Navy?" he asked abruptly.

The officers traded quizzical looks at the non sequitur before a few raised their hands.

"Why?" one asked. "You Annapolis?"

"Uh-uh... but what's that one skill they say you'll never need to use, involves navigation?"

The naval officers again traded puzzled looks before one of the younger ones spoke up. "Sextant?"

"Bingo..." Rodgers said slowly, voice brimming with constrained energy. More clicking. "...There's... a glimpse of the sun... So... if what I'm thinking is correct..."

Comprehension, followed immediately by unrestrained excitement, dawned over the bluewater men.

"…Using the sun's angle above the horizon, I can get a latitude fix…" His fingers crackled over the keyboard as he spoke, "…The time-stamp allows me to correct for longitude… And shadows on the mountains tell me orientation…" Trailing off, Rodgers shut up as his computer churned. "Allllmooost got it..." he muttered, drumming his fingers.

Suddenly, he slammed a fist down on his laptop and whooped.

"There! Afghanistan! Lowgar province! Cave in a mountain range southeast of Kabul!"

The room erupted in cheering.

"Hell, we've got 'im now!" shouted Michael Chertoff, head of Homeland Security.

Over the din, the President called, "Jeff, what position are you?"

"CIA Spook-in-training, sir!"

"Well, consider yourself promoted! Rodgers, you too!"

Bush eventually called for silence. "OK, people, we've got to keep this quiet so it don't get out that we know where he is. We're gonna need a Special-Ops mission to take this guy out or down. Preferably down. I'm putting this, naturally, on top priority. You guys need to get cracking on parameters. Pull every string you damn near can. Now, get out and get going! _Yee-haw!_"

Yelling slurs and fist-pumping the air, the staff and officials piled toward the exit. After grimly ushering the ecstatic, whooping group out, Cheney closed the bunker door and turned to the President.

"Permission to speak freely, sir."

"Permission granted. You really don't have to say that, Dick."

Cheney cleared his throat. "Sir, what _are_ you thinking? Nice words, rash words, good words from a fellow Texan, but… do you _really_ expect you can pull this thing off?"

"Always with the status quo, eh, Dick?" Bush said quietly, churching his fingers slightly as he leaned against the wall.

"Just looking out for the country's best interests, Mr. President," Cheney said breezily, "There's just not enough time to raise a Special Ops group without it being noticed by somebody, maybe even the media. This attack hit us at a really bad time…"

"Don't they all?"

"All our top agents are already involved overseas, and we can't blow their covers and further risk national security by suddenly redeploying them. We'd need to organize a new team, and we don't have _time_. Al-Qaeda moves like a greased pig. The members of a new team would have to be… cobbled together, at best. We'd have to know where they are at this very moment, and they'd have to already be trained in hazardous and lethal combat, as well as versed in terrorist tactics. That would take weeks, and we have days. This mission you're calling for, George… on such a narrow time window… I don't think it's going to work. Simply impossible."

Through the remainder of Cheney's outburst, Bush stood pensive. As Cheney finished, a look of decision crossed the President's face. He strode silently over to a desk in the room, identical to the Resolution desk up in the Oval Office. On it stood three fire-engine red touchtone telephones. Each had marked levels of use. The one on the far left, labeled "U.S.S.R. / Russia," looked barely touched and almost new. The phone on the far right, marked "Domino's Pizza," looked more worn. The phone in the middle… Varnish and some of the red paint had rubbed off the mouthpiece. Its label had become illegible. The print on a certain set of numbers had almost worn off. Bush picked the middle phone's club off its cradle and started to punch the well-worn numbers.

"Who are _you_ calling?" Cheney asked, a bit incredulously.

The President looked sharply up at him. "The one for which this mission _is_ possible."

"And who is _that?_"

"Who the hell do you think, Dick? Kim Possible."

To be continued...


	2. The Sirens Reach Home

2

**2. The Sirens Reach Home**

Monday, April 23, 2007  
Middleton High gym  
9:40 AM CST

A piercing whistle blast reverberated throughout the cavernous room, shaking dust off the rafters.

"All right, girls, that's enough for today! But get some rest, 'cause tomorrow we're going to try the double pyramid!" shouted a 19-year-old redhead dressed in a grass-green tank and relaxed-fit navy cargos to a group of cheerleaders. As the squad piled out of position and slung on gym bags, the slim, athletic coach passed out the next day's routine from a clipboard. Teen "wunder girl" Kim Possible then advanced to the bleachers to meet up with the blonde boy who had been watching the practice: Ronald Stoppable, best friend and adventurous sidekick.

"Hey, Ron."

"Hey, K.P."

The clipboard tatted lightly as the young woman set it down on the metal bleachers. Unslinging the whistle, she began spinning the lanyard around her fingers. "...Man, it feels good to be back here. I really miss this place at college. I'm just happy I'm getting to coach the Varsity team for this year's Cheer-Off."

She glanced down at Ron's wrist. On it was a small light-blue rubber wristband, akin to the yellow LIVESTRONG bands produced by seven-time Tour de France winner Lance Armstrong. Instead of words, however, there was a small picture of the Israeli flag.

"What's that?"

Ron slipped it off his arm and held it up. "Today is Yom Ha-Atzmaut," he said matter-of-factly, "The 5th of Iyyar on the Jewish calendar. I picked up the bracelet at Temple last Saturday."

"Yom Ha-Atz-what?"

"Yom Ha-Atzumaut," Ron repeated slowly. "A little known Jewish holiday in America, it commemorates the creation of the State of Israel with UN grounds in Palestine. It–"

A familiar "peep-peep-be-deep" interrupted him. After a second, it sounded again, this time in a shrill, tinny, speaker-blasting note. Kim glanced quizzically at Ron, who shrugged, also perplexed by the unusual volume. Wade could remotely change the Kimmunicator ringtone volume, but he rarely if ever did so.

Kim reached inside her backpack lying beside Ron and pulled out a small blue device – the Kimmunicator – and pressed the center button.

"What's the sit– Wade, what's the matter with _you?_"

Wade, the 14-year-old supergenius who ran Kim's operations, looked a mess. His clothes were wrinkled, his hair was everywhere, and his eyes were red-rimmed from tears.

"_Kim!_ Thank God you're all right!" he shouted into the microphone, "The White House, Pentagon, National Mall, and Freedom Tower have been bombed!"

Kim gasped. "_Wha-? _Is it Drakken?"

"No… worse," Wade continued in a slightly calmer voice, recovering, "Al-Qaeda. Again. I've gotten reports of a simultaneous five-plane hijacking…Here's streaming video… The Freedom Tower stuff just got uploaded." His face was replaced by images of the buildings being slammed by the airliners.

"Just like 9/11," Ron mumbled, voice breaking.

"Ohnononono," squeaked Rufus, Ron's naked mole rat.

Kim's breath caught. The raw, grainy YouTube footage sucked her back six years. The entire family had gaped on the couch that September afternoon, while she'd asked over and over as the buildings exploded again and again on TV, "_Why, Mommy? Why?"_

Wade's face appeared back onscreen. "–And it looks like there's one left."

"An-an-other one?" Kim stammered weakly.

"Yeah… I've triangulated its position with GPS, and based on my calculations of airspeed velocities and heading vectors, it looks like it's headed toward your area. We've got to get you to a safe location before –"

_BOOOOMMMMMM!_

Middleton High  
9:43 CST

A muffled explosion rocked the gym. The floor shook slightly, and the remaining cheer squad members and the famous trio looked around in alarm.

"OH… CRAP!" Kim yelled as she stuffed the Kimmunicator in her pocket and dashed for the exterior gym door. She kicked it open, ran outside, and froze in shock. A huge black cloud of oily smoke, highlighted with sharp stabs of flame, billowed from the far edge of town. Its color and shape were much like ones she had seen on her missions to Iraq. "Come _on_, Ron!" she shouted over her shoulder.

Kim sprinted across the parking lot to her forest-green Subaru Outback. The diesel-electric hybrid had been a high school graduation present after the Roth was destroyed in the invasion. Wrenching open the door, she threw herself in and screeched up to the gym entrance.

Ron opened the passenger side door and clambered in.

"Melt it to the floor, Kim!"

"Going."

The tires shrieked and smoked as Kim peeled out. Pulling onto the main road, she wound her way through a throng of rescue vehicles streaming toward the crash scene. All noise was overwhelmed by the omnipresent, intangible scream and howl of sirens.

With a snap, Kim realized what direction of town the smoke was coming from. "Oh, God, no!" she breathed, "God, please God, no!"

Her terror increased as the procession turned down correct street after correct street until it reached her own. As her own home swam into view, smoke and fire pouring from the hill behind it, she slammed on the brakes and tore herself out of the car. She dashed over to her mother, who was being helped off the pavement by two EMS personnel.

"Oh, MOM!" she sobbed, throwing her arms around her.

"Shhh, Kimmy, I'm right here," Mrs. Possible whispered into her daughter's shoulder, fighting tears and a tremendous ringing in her ears. "I'm right here, I'm alright. I'm safe. Shhh..."

Kim opened her eyes as she felt something warm and wet soak over her hands. She pulled away, startled, to find her palms coated in blood that wasn't her own.

"Mom… you're... _bleeding!_"

Apparently noticing it for the first time, Anne twisted her arms over to expose her skinned elbows, currently dripping blood onto the street. She coolly raised her eyebrows. "...Huh. So I am..."

Accepting an alcohol wipe from a medic, she cleaned her elbows. She stoically bit her tongue hard as antiseptic seeped into the wound. Taking a proffered gauze strip from the EMT, she wrapped it up and down her elbow area. "Don't worry 'bout me, hon," she said crisply to her daughter as she one-handedly tied the fastening knot, "I know pretty darn well what it takes to kill a person, and this little scratch certainly isn't it."

Kim nodded quickly, tearing up again, and hid her shaking lips by vigorously cleaning off her hands with another alcohol wipe.

Another screech of stopping tires made her look up. Mr. Dr. Possible, and her brothers Jim and Tim, spilled out of Mr. Possible's car. James Possible froze, staring in disbelief at the house, a mix of shock and fear etched on his features. He ran over to his wife and daughter and embraced them, relief washing over his face. The twins followed suit.

Ron, meanwhile, found his mother and father in the gathering crowd and hugged them. He now joined the Possible group, gazing toward the blasted house and clasping Kim tight around the waist. She leaned into his shoulder, eyes burning. The Possible family bobbled through the crowd of friends, offering reassurances and accepting condolences. Monique helped intercept the media and direct them away from the shaken family. Everyone watched soundlessly as rescue services rushed across the yard and police set up a cordon.

Twenty minutes later, the chief of Middleton's Fire Department walked over and shook hands with Mr. Possible. "We've gotten the non-aviation-fueled fires out," he said quietly, "And we've gotten the house braced and supported. You can go in. It looks a mess in there, but it's structurally sound."

The family took a collective deep breath and walked through the front door. The rooms at the front of the house, baffled and protected by interior walls, looked all right. Carpeting was clogged with mud from the firefighters and everything was coated with a layer of drywall, but things were relatively unscathed. The deeper they progressed into the house, however, the worse the destruction got. The television Anne had been watching was thrown over and smashed down the middle. As they reached the threshold of the rooms along the back wall, Anne dropped to her knees. She stood up quickly as glass crinkled below the pressure points.

Before Kim's senses caught up with her, she thought a category-five hurricane had gone through. Every window was blown out; glass strewn throughout the rooms in tiny, glittering shards. Walls facing the windows were piled high with shattered furniture, pictures, and decorations. Part of the roof had been lifted up and peeled back, so a glimmer of sunlight now twinkled through the eave joint. An exterior door had been blow out of its frame and punched halfway through a closet. The wall facing the blast was withered and cracked by the shock and heat. Wallpaper was bubbled and peeling. All that was left on the exterior side of the wall were the charred sheets of metal, the house's saving factor.

Mr. Possible shrugged sheepishly. "I _knew_ rebuilding the house with leftover plating from the space center's new blockhouse was a good idea... I'd been expecting Jim and Tim, but..."

Kim's attic room had faired slightly better, since it was higher and farther away from the explosion, although it was still a wreck.

Picking their way through the rubble, they wandered outside to the backyard. The grass was scorched and brown from the heat, and the fireball had consumed the old swingset and plastic patio furniture. The hill and much of the backyard had been roped off with yellow police tape and crawled with rescue personnel. Flight 74 had drilled a titanic crater into the hillside, which was now littered with big and little airplane parts, globs of dirt, torched trees, and (Kim shuddered) small organic remains.

"Why?" she wondered aloud, looking up at the destruction, "Why...? Why would they do this? Why _me?_"

Ron sidled up beside her. "Why?" he asked rhetorically, "Because you're one of the few who can stop them. They hate you, and anybody else who tries to do good in this world. If al-Qaeda killed you, we'd be hard-pressed to stop them from bombing us again... Not to mention the curb-stomp to morale."

They grew silent, supporting each other, staring at the sharp flames and smoke, and wept.

Middleton  
Possible house - backyard  
11:35 A.M. CST

The Kimmunicator beeped. Kim pulled it out of her thigh pocket and paused for a moment before pressing the ON/OFF button. Wade's face flickered onto the screen.

"...What's the sitch, Wade?" she asked apprehensively.

"Don't worry, Kim. No bad news. Actually, some good news."

"Huh?"

"The President just called. Said he urgently needs you in Washington."

"Now, Wade?" she muttered desperately, glancing over at her family.

"Yea. He said it's, quote, of national importance."

"Did he tell you why? We're having a little crisis right now!"

"So is the rest of the nation, Kim..."

Sizing up Kim's obstinate face, Wade hesitated and glanced furtively at one of his monitors, thinking. Biting his bottom lip slightly as he reached a decision, he looked around his room secretively and leaned closer into the webcam. "..._Look,_ I'm not really supposed to tell you this, but if it'll make any difference to you, they found Osama bin Laden's hiding spot."

Kim's facial features brightened, then hardened. "The nutter that gave the green-go for all this crap?"

"The one and the same."

Kim closed her eyes and took a few measured, distilling breaths. "...All…righty now..." she whispered, opening her eyes again, "That... changes things..." She looked up at the smoke cloud curling into the sky. Near the crest of the hill, she saw a rescue worker take out a small American flag and drape it reverently across a fragment. "…I'm on my way… Later, Wade." She slipped the device back in her pocket and turned to her boyfriend. "Ron, we're off to D.C."

"Why?"

"Prez Bush called, said he wanted us… Are the gadgets and our mission clothes in the car?"

"Always are. You know the motto I leaned in Scouts, Kim: Be Prepared."

Kim walked over to her family and embraced them. "Wade just rang," she said softly, "I've gotta go to D.C. for something urgent… Duty calls. I'm sorry."

Mrs. Possible's face fell. "Now, honey?"

"Yea. I'm really sorry… get back as soon as I can. I'll really miss you guys." She hugged each of them separately.

"Good luck, and Godspeed," murmured Mr. Possible as she drew away.

Kim dug in the floor compartment of the Subaru's hatchback, pulled out a magnetic LED light-bar and large, reflective panels, and stuck them on the sides, hood, tailgate, and (for the light) roof of the car. The markings, along with a special ID card, gave her special privileges, including discount diesel and the ability to travel a constant 80 mph on freeways without risk of a speeding ticket.

"C'mon, Ron," Kim called as she slid into the driver's seat and started the car. Ron climbed in.  
She leaned out the window, waving furiously at her family, silent tears coursing down her cheeks as she drove away. She waved until the thick pall of smoke from the hill obscured both the family and house.

I-64  
Northwestern Kentucky  
2:11 PM CST

Kim rolled down the window, letting a blast of fresh air into the car. Ignoring the roaring slipstream, she put her elbow on the windowsill and let the rush of wind rake and snarl through her long hair. The air smelled of dry concrete and pollen. Kim took a deep, calming breath as stale, stuffy cabin air flushed out the rear windows. Even at highway speeds, the electrically-assisted Bluetec diesel was virtually silent.

Cresting a gentle hill, the highway sloped down into a broad, shallow valley. Kim weaved between lanes a few times to break up the tedium and flex her stiff shoulders. The interstates had been virtually empty, allowing her to bore on with the speedometer needle never leaving 80. Except for a scattering of cop cars monitoring exit ramps or an occasional military convoy, she had the wide expanse of tarmac to herself.

Ron sighed. "...Why today?"

Kim sent the window back up and the cabin suddenly became very quiet. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is: Why'd the terrorists pick _today_ to attack us? Why today of all-" His eyes caught and focused on his blue wristband. "Aw, damn."

"What?"

Ron held his arm up and pointed to his band. "THIS is why he chose today! Yom Ha-Atzumaut! It's 'cause something good happened for my people!"

"Jews?" Kim whispered softly.

"Yeah… He's sick, KP. Sick. He detests us. Him and the rest of those bastards. They go out of their way to find anything we've got – anything – _and they hack at it!_ That's why we gotta take him down. Just _gotta_..." His voice rose and became more agitated as he vented. Kim sensed this had been percolating since they left her house.

"...You wouldn't guess it from my video games, Kim, but I'm not a hater… Violence, in the real world, ain't my thing… But… but…" he grasped at nothing, fingers splayed and undecided, as if to claw his thoughts from the air, "When it comes to this guy… People like that... They don't ever clean up... They just… keep spewing and spewing... until..."

He crossed his arms angrily and slumped in his seat, exhausted from his outburst and the events of the day. Moodily, he gazed unfocusedly at his reflection in the window and the lane markers swishing past on the pavement below. After a few quiet minutes, he sighed heavily, yanked on a lever on the side of the seat, and plunked backward. Expression troubled, he closed his eyes and escaped into uneasy sleep.

Kim gazed at Ron for several long moments, biting her lip, holding the Subaru steady with an arm laced through the wheel spokes. Her attention was jerked back to driving as cat's-eyes rumbled under the tires and the Outback gently drifted toward the shoulder line. Glancing into the rearview mirror, Kim saw no traffic and skimmed the car smoothly across three lanes, back into the far-left one. Adjusting the sun visor to block the glare, she thought about what Ron had just said, rage at bin Laden growing.

_That son of a bitch... Look what he's done to this country, Ron, and me…_ _This might be the most important, history-deciding mission you've ever been on, girl. The mission. THE Mission. Certainly the most dangerous. Who knows how well al-Qaeda is armed?_

I-95

Virginian Piedmont area

10:00 PM EST

As she drove near Richmond, Virginia, she turned on the radio. Q-94, a local station, was playing some School House Rock song as a patriotic gesture. She wasn't really listening to the lyrics until her ears picked up a stanza:

: …And the shot heard 'round the world  
Was the start of the Revolution.  
The Minute Men were ready, on the move.  
Take your powder, get your gun!  
Report to General Washington!  
Hurry, there's not an hour to lose...!:

_Or maybe General Bush,_ she thought with a wry smile. _Funny, I've got everything but the gun._

After a few more hours of northward driving, three columns of smoke hove into sight above the Potomac River. Lit via the Tyndall Effect from the search-and-rescue searchlights, they formed three ghostly middle fingers pointing defiantly into the serene, star-studded sky.

April 24th, 2007  
Washington D.C. area

12:14 AM EST  


  
Toll of 4/23/07:  
2,000+ lives  
3 heavily damaged buildings  
One slightly damaged and one destroyed monument  
One moderately damaged house  
5 airplanes  
Untold livelihoods

To be continued…


	3. Rendezvous

3

**3. Rendezvous **

…_that's a French word, isn't it? Points off for that!_

Tuesday, April 24th, 2007  
Washington D.C. area  
8:52 AM

Sometimes, even the weather cooperated. A few hours after two stiff, road-weary teens rolled into Washington, a small clipper system moved through the metropolis. The fleeting rain, just enough to darken the blacktop and put a gleam on the leaves, symbolically cleansed the world after the heat and terror of the previous twenty-four hours. By dawn's early light, the sky seemed refreshed and born anew. Deep-gold sunlight warmed the retreating backs of patchy morning clouds. The country's problems hadn't gone away, but early risers could breathe the newly-washed air and know, at least, that it was a new day.

After informing the President via Kimmunicator of their arrival, Kim and Ron spent the night in a motel outside the hub of Washington.

The continental breakfast the next morning was subdued. A scattering of travelers – the ones who _hadn't_ fled the city the previous afternoon – sat far apart and morosely read copies of the _Washington Post_, gazing dejectedly at huge banner headlines and devastating front-page photographs.

Kim mirrored their expressions as she quietly tapped through news websites on the Kimmunicator between bites of poppyseed muffin, eyes soft and pained. Ron picked at his corn flakes and didn't say much. In their mission outfits, the two teenagers stood out like bulls-eyes amongst the business suits, but everyone was too wrapped in their own worries to ask for an autograph. After paying the room bill, Kim loaded their West Wing rendezvous into the Outback's GPS system and set out.

Overnight, the idyllic, free capital had transformed into a giant military base. As they slowly drove closer to the center of Washington, security became, believably, unbelievable. Heavily-armed phalanxes of police officers and National Guard huddled at every street corner. The security formed a network of constricting rings encircling the government buildings, much like energy levels surrounding an atom nucleus. Kim had to give ID and verification at each one. Humvees and Stryker ICVs replaced sedans and SUVs at stoplights. Every two minutes a flight of F-22s drifted overhead, protecting a shoot-to-kill no-fly zone. A pall of smoke from the triple crashes added a backdrop to the city.

Ron gazed, awed, out the windshield. "Wow..." he breathed, "This is tighter than the 2004 inaugural… INcredible…"

Kim took her eyes off the road for a moment to glance at him. "Well, _duh_."

A few blocks from the White House, a military roadblock spanned the road. As Kim began detouring onto a side street, an armored HMMWV broke away from the front of the guard force, trundled diagonally across the street and part of the sidewalk, and screeched to a halt in front of the car's bumper. Kim slammed on the brakes to avoid t-boning it, seatbelt catching even at this low speed. Eying the truck's twin roof-mounted .50 caliber machine guns, she decided not to lean angrily on the horn. As she began to roll down her window to speak to the driver, two men got out of the truck. Kim recognized the suits and balding patterns, and her yell softened in her throat as she opened her mouth. "Special Agent Smith!... and Special Agent Smith! What's this all about?"

The two agents approached the vehicle.

"Sorry for startling you, Miss Possible- "

"-But we couldn't let you get away."

"We're under orders to pick you up. You and Ron will ride the rest of the way with us."

"Leave the car here."

"We'll have it taken to secure storage."

Reluctantly, Kim pulled the keys out of the ignition and tossed them to one of the men in black. He flipped them with a nod to one of the guards approaching from the roadblock. Going around the car, Kim and Ron pulled their gear out of the trunk. When they came back, the agents nodded to them and shook their hands.

"Thank you. You need to contact the President as quickly as possible."

Kim smiled a little at the unintended pun.

"We must lose-"

"-Not a minute. "

Riding in the Humvee, they passed though the checkpoints much faster. As the truck rounded a final corner, Kim and Ron came face-to-face with the shattered White House. A gaping crater of charred, smoking earth loomed at the center of the South Lawn, littered with debris. Rescue and forensics personnel crawled around the chasm, occasionally picking up and passing along shattered fragments. Of 1600 Pennsylvania itself, parts of the façade were draped with blue tarps. Every window on the famed white building was blown out, and the sides were scorched smoke-black, scarred and pitted.

Kim gasped and put a hand to her mouth, the scene reflected twice in liquid-sheeted eyes. "My… Gawd…"

Apart from a diesel cough, silence reigned in the vehicle.

The silence lasted until they pulled up in front of the fabled West Wing, the crater somewhat blocked by the building's mass. Flanked by both agents, each carrying an assault rifle, Kim and Ron were escorted inside the wing. Upon reaching the Oval Office door, they were stopped for the last time by a heavily decorated, rifle-toting security official. "Names?"

"Kim Possible…"

"…And Ron Stoppable."

The guard snapped into a crisp salute. "Welcome, you two. The President has been waiting." She opened the door. "…And God bless," she murmured as they walked inside.

Washington D.C.  
West Wing  
Oval Office  
9:28 AM

The sight greeting them was not at all like the television show. Thick gunmetal-gray blast panels covered the widows and walls, making the room hard and claustrophobic. Much of the finery had been removed and replaced with complicated military equipment. The carpet swarmed with Secret Service agents. The only familiar things in the Oval Office were the famous wooden desk bearing the seal of the United States, and the man sitting behind it.

George W. Bush rose out of his armchair to greet them. Kim noticed the President's hair was a few shades grayer and his face more weary and lined since the last time they had met. Kim and – with a small nudge – Ron sharply saluted.

"At ease," said the President, and they lowered their salute. "…Welcome. To cut the crap and get right to the point of this meeting, if y'all wondering: I called you here because Osama bin Laden, the infamous al-Qaeda leader, has been located."

Bush spit the words out hard and fast like bullets. Tension and urgency had stripped away his characteristic slow drawl, leaving only a trace twang around the edges of his words.

Judging from his guests' determined, unwavering expressions, he knew Wade had already informed them of this and continued. "...I'm going fast, 'cause time is short, so don't lose yer cattle. Your mission is to travel to his location and bring him to justice, preferably alive. If that ain't doable, specially if he puts up a fight, we have no problems if you kill him."

Ringing silence. Kim's head spun from the verbal torrent. She'd had time to think during the drive, and she'd suspected something like this, but the facts lain out so raw and fast made her stomach hurt.

Bush waited a few more moments, and then began again. "Either way, there's a 25 million-dollar reward."

Ron's eyes popped wide. "Twen-twenty f-five _million?_" he stuttered, "That's… that's a _lot_ of nacos…!"

"Yessiree, 25 million. Even split between y'all two, that's still 12.5 million apiece."

"Whooooow, lotta zeros," breathed Ron, closely imitating a punctured Ziploc bag, "Wow..."

"Ron," Kim muttered in his ear, "Don't unspool the drool…"

Dubya coughed slightly. "Now, for yer parameters," he said, picking a stuffed manila folder off his desk. Now that the blunt unpleasantries were out of the way, his drawl began to creep back. "Yes, now… You will have a highly trained twelve-person team to help you with your mission. You'll meet them tomorrow... We have arranged high-speed transportation to carry you and the team to Kabul. From there, a special helicopter will ferry you the rest of the way."

The President licked his thumb and leafed through the folder. "Because of y'all's past experience with our folks, and your own little free-lance organization, it looks like y'all need little extra training for this mission. However, I've looked through your mission records, and it seems..." Bush looked up sharply at the pair, "That neither of you have professionally used firearms."

"Wait… you mean we're gonna need _guns?_" asked Kim, alarmed. The word cleared her spinning head, but it didn't maker her stomach feel any better.

"Yep, 'fraid so. Both of you are 19, right? Old enough to legally carry a firearm?"

"Yes, but, but, all I've used much is my grappling gun, and a sleeping-dart gun-thingy in '05 to haul Zarqawi outta a mosque in Baghdad–"

"Ahhh," digressed the President, "You used the Ace Darts, right?"

"Yessir, the Acepromazine darts. Knocked people out in about five seconds."

"They are wonderful, aren't they?"

"Yes, Mr. President, but back on topic, I've never actually handled a live-fire weapon. Ron did, though." She turned to her boyfriend. "Don't you remember when you used that Hummer-top .50 cal.?"

"Yea, but that was only when you were leaving the mosque with that leader dude, and the baddies had you guys surrounded and were gonna blow you away. I just popped into the turret and started spraying," Ron said, looking a bit ill. "I didn't know how to work it, I just pulled the trigger and shot 'till I heard that 'click, click, click.'"

Bush intervened. "Well, that just means we've got to outfit y'all with some firepower. Perfect. Our new CATM officer will show you the ropes..."

As he finished, he gestured toward the office door. The Secret Service parted as the door swung open. A short, stocky, Caucasian man with a build like a bulldog strode in. His immaculate olive uniform was adorned with various medals and ribbons, and his shoulders were gilded with the golden epaulets of a three-star general. The twinkle of his badges competed with light sparkling off his bald, egg-shaped head. His eyes were shielded by large, opaque sunglasses.

Glancing up and spotting Kim and Ron, he halted mid-stride and saluted. "Miss Possible. Mr. Stoppable," he barked in a gutturally nasal voice, "So we meet again." He unclasped a hand from behind his back and extended it.

"General Simms!" exclaimed Kim, shaking his hand and fighting down the urge to hug him, "Man, I'm glad to see you again, sir! ...And, uh, what's a CATM?"

"Stands for _Combat Arms Training and Maintenance_," Simms explained. "A trainer for small arms and special weaponry."

"Oh." She paused. "...But why're you a special-weapons guy? I thought somebody like Private Dobbs would be more of a weapons per–"

She stopped, realizing the room had gone quiet.

"..._Lieutenant_ Dobbs was... killed in the Pentagon attack," said the general softly, bowing his large head. "His office was located at the impact point of the airliner. He died instantly. I happened to be giving a report on the other side of the Pentagon when it was hit, and managed to get out..."

He clasped his sausagelike fingers dejectedly. "Cleotis… was… a close friend of mine... After his adventure with you two," he nodded respectably at the teens, "The army was so impressed by his conduct under such trying circumstances they gave him a promotion. It seemed to kick something off in him, and he started moving up. He had a real knack for specialty stuff, and pretty soon he was assigned to my division at Groom Lake. My field isn't very big, so you tend to form a really tight-knit group…"

Simms sighed heavily. "…And when the attacks happened, I was the one in the area with the most knowledge of special weapons, and I'd been a CATM when I was younger. Throw in the fact I've worked with you guys before, and there you have it."

"Oh… man… I didn't know," Kim murmured, "They got him too? I knew him only for a little while, but… he… was a friend of mine… I… I never forget a mission partner…" She broke off, throat constricting.

A long, uncomfortable silence ensued. Ron and Bush stared at the floor.

Simms fidgeted with his tie and straightened up. "...Well, you two, let's get outfitted. I've got a Hummer waiting outside; we're gonna head over to Andrews Air Force Base."

Swallowing hard, Ron scooted next to Kim. She surreptitiously clasped his hand.

President Bush stood to attention and _harrumphed _importantly. Everyone turned to face him.

"You have heard your mission," he intoned solemnly, "Yours will be dangerous and difficult. The might an' power of America stands with an' behind you... Godspeed."

He gave a stiff salute, which Kim and Ron returned.

"Come with me," muttered General Simms, and they trailed him out of the office.

Highway 5  
About 10 miles southeast of Washington  
9:42 AM

Simms twisted in the driver's seat, keeping one eye on the highway and another on the teens in the Humvee's rear bench seat.

"So..." he said, a paternal eyebrow rising above the rim of his sunglasses, "ready to get geared up?"

Kim shuddered a little, involuntarily.

"What?" Simms asked with a trace of alarm, "Are you afraid of guns? I know firearms are more of a guy hobby, but…" He trailed off.

"No, no, I'm not... _afraid_ of guns, it's just... that... I don't really like them," Kim replied slowly, choosing her words carefully. "I respect them an' all, and… they've got a place... somewheres... But... they're sooo loud, and hurting, and lethal, and, and… _ending_… I'm just so used to bringing in my foes alive – at least – using martial arts, and without huge amounts of... blood and gore." She winced.

Simms's expression softened. "...Well… I can see where you're coming from, Ms. Possible. But... the sad fact is we're living in a world now where you just... _can't_ bring in people alive all the time. There're people, especially the jihads, who don't care about spilling their blood or dying, as long as they splatter yours. You'll be going into a "sitch," as you put it, where guns _will_ be used, and the people behind the trigger won't let you get close enough to use karate. We have to train you to take down bogies at a safer distance, by any means necessary. Whether _you_ choose to use it is your decision, but it's vital to have the skills if you _need_ to."

He trained both eyes out the windscreen. An F-22 Raptor passed over the truck in final-approach position with landing gear down. "...We're getting close to the base; I'll get back to you in a sec. ...I have to present ID and find the range."

Funneling through an off ramp, he spun off the highway and onto a serious government road that ended in a large, heavily barricaded gate and high-voltage fence. The checkpoint crawled with soldiers toting assault rifles. A sign, partially blocked by sandbags, read: _Welcome to Andrews Air Force Base, home of the Air Force One._ Beneath the main title, in smaller letters, ran: _Please present ID and verification at the gate. Thank you._ Below that, on a cardboard scrap duct-taped to the sign, was scrawled, obviously by base personnel, _DROP DEAD, OSAMA!! WE GONNA GIT YOU!!_

Simms chuckled as he presented ID to the stony-faced guard in the gatehouse. After being waved through by the security man, the Hummer passed through several hundred yards of open land dotted every hundred feet or so by sandbagged machine gun nests. The base appeared immediately after the last machine guns. The land was crisscrossed with large military structures and office buildings. HUMMWVs such as theirs rumbled by, dodging officials and generals. The impressive office complex gave way to more functional, less ornate facilities. Crisp, brown-and-white signs reading "Barracks," "Mess Hall," "Training Facility," "Quartermaster," "Commissary," and "BX" could be seen. As Simms drove down one clean-swept street, they passed a baseball field.

In the distance loomed the dominating forms of the aircraft hangers, weapons depots, and control towers as well as the omnipresent shriek of jet engines. Finally, as they neared the perimeter fence, Simms turned the vehicle onto a vacant gravel parking lot in front of a huge, dark, low-slung building surrounded by scrub plants and course grasses. Stones crackled under the wide tires as he lugged the heavy vehicle to a halt.

Kim scanned the building's exterior and felt a chill settle into her stomach. Beside a sign stating _Reserved _was "Andrews A.F.B. Firing Range. Authorized Personnel Only."

The general torqued the ignition and the diesel puttered into stillness. In the quiet, he drummed his fingers once, twice on the steering wheel, took a deep breath, exhaled sharply, and again turned to the back seat.

"…Remember, you two, it's all right to be a little nervous when handling loaded weapons for the first time," he said. "But don't be afraid. Respect these weapons for what they are. Do not treat them lightly or as a toy. Think hard about what you are doing before you use them. And most importantly, remember you control the gun; the gun does not control you. Ready?"

Ron, followed by Kim, slowly nodded.

"Good. Follow me."

He helped them out of the truck and led the way to a hardened navy-blue entry door. Pulling a large, dull-silver key out of a breast pocket, he opened the door with a satisfying _clilchock_. Sealed against the threshold was the blank, tubular face of an airlock. Simms unlocked a second latch with the key and spun open the inner barrel with two fingers. When the teens squeezed in beside him, he rumbled the metal barrel around with the heel of his hand. A motion-activated 30-watt light illuminated weakly above them, spreading dark pools between their feet. As the airlock's aperture rotated 180 degrees, it opened into a yawning chasm of complete darkness. Kim hesitated, but Simms strode confidently over the circular threshold and into the gloom. His boots cracked as he walked, clipping sharply on polished concrete. Echoes from his footsteps reverberated ponderously, booming down and down into unseen space beyond.

Ron, and then Kim, reluctantly left the lighted cocoon of the airlock and followed him into black.

Simms's wingtip boots _shushed_ as he turned around. "Oops, lemme hit the lights. Watch your eyes."

Essentially blind, Kim tracked him by the tac-tac of his footsteps as he moved in an arc to her right. She heard him thud heavily into the wall and scrabble along it, muttering low soldier curses.

"Where in th' is that god-da- Ah!"

The sharp flick a heavy-duty light switch preceded the heavy ignition _whom _of a long string of florescent bulbs. As if lit by God, three parallel lines of halogens blazed to life and raced each other into the fleeing darkness.

Blinking away momentary blindness and spots, Kim felt her jaw drop.

They stood at the head of the biggest firing range she had ever seen. About ten yards before her was a low, segmented partition similar to a tall Jersey barrier. Beyond the partition was a space stretching the length and breadth of the building under a warehouse-like ceiling of bright lights. At the far end, the smooth concrete floor and walls angled together with a black chasm in the center to form a bullet trap.

However, it was not the titanic size of the range that caught her eye; it was what was laying on a long row of padded tables between them and the firing line. The nearest table was covered with handguns and pistols of different makes, calibers, and origins. The tables after that were layered with firearms of a slightly bigger caliber – rifles, carbines, assaults, leading up to a .50 caliber on a tripod on the floor.

Kim's eyes bugged. "Oh, G-"

"-rrraaaavy…" Ron finished.

April 24th, 2007  
Andrews Air Force Base  
Heavy Weapons Firing Range  
10:12 AM

To be continued….


	4. Lock and Load

4

**4. Lock and Load**

April 24th, 2007  
Andrews Air Force Base  
Heavy Weapons Firing Range  
10:12 AM

"...Pretty impressive, ain't it?"

The general's loud voice sounded between Kim and Ron's shoulders. They jumped.

"If… if you say so…" Kim said weakly.

"Go on. You can pick 'em up."

Kim hesitated. Even Ron and Rufus, who had been naturally more gung-ho about using the weapons, paused. It was all right to talk about, read, and see guns in books and media, but when confronted with the actual, hard presence of the instruments themselves, it was definitely sobering.

"It's okay," Simms said, noticing their uncertainty, "They don't have any bullets in them yet; I unloaded them all before I came to the White House…" he gestured to several carts loaded with ammunition cases standing beside the tables, "…And I triple-checked."

Kim slowly walked to the first table and cautiously picked up a Colt M1911. Pointing it as far downrange as she could extend her arm, and leaning away from it, she pulled the trigger.

_Click. Click. Click._

Nothing. She carefully brought the weapon back to her body. She ran her thumb over the textured handgrip as she turned the pistol over, feeling a cold, hard bite of pitiless steel in her slightly damp palms. She gingerly peered edgewise down the bottomless well of the barrel. She winced. The blackness inside a gun barrel has no equal in the world.

Beside her, Ron examined a Magnum Desert Eagle, performing the same test Kim had done. "Soooo," he asked, turning to Simms, "Could this thing, like, knock somebody back 10 feet?"

The general laughed. "No, no, no. That's Hollywood bunk. These weapons work on Newton's Third, 'member? Whatever the force given to a bullet, it's the same amount you feel back through recoil. So, for a round to push someone back 10 feet, **you'd** also have't go back 10 feet! These guns certainly can't do that. _Maybe_ with a bazooka, if you weren't stabilized properly..."

He rotated to Kim, who was laying the gun back on the table. "So, how good a shot are you?"

She shrugged, modest. "Pretty good, sir. I've used my grappler for a couple years, and I'm excellent at that. Wade modded a skeet shooter for me to practice on. But I've never had to… aim it at someone...

"Then in 'Raq, I got training using the dart gun, and hitting critical mass, but I've never had to deal with… with…" She extended her thumb and index fingers into the classic sideways 'L' and jerked it upward, "the 'jump' thing."

"The recoil?"

"Yea, that..."

"Don't worry. I'll teach you how to deal with it… Now," he said, pulling two metallic briefcases off the top of one of the carts, "I'll give you your weapons." He laid the cases in a clear spot on the table and put a hand over the latches. "_**But**_ before I let you train with _any_ weapon, I have to teach you a few safety rules. It _does not_ matter what gun it is, you have to follow them. After this is all over, I'll get you some NRA packets and you can read over how to store – What?"

Kim had unconsciously grimaced at the word _NRA_. "What?"

"I take it you wouldn't be too happy 'bout some NRA flyers?"

She sneered consciously now. "Oh, you mean the Gun Nuts Association of America?"

The general crooked into a smile. "…I take it you're a Democrat?"

The redhead canted her head to one side, smiling thinly. "I prefer 'independent,' sir."

Simms nodded to himself, lifted his hands off the gun cases, and paced behind the table slightly. "Well, I see we've got our first wall to break down…. First off, the National Rifle Association has produced some excellent guidelines and literature for responsible gun owners. Through their efforts, they've come up with a standardized, straightforward set of safety rules and storage tips, which, if followed a hundred percent, would wipe out a large portion of shootings."

Kim angrily opened her mouth.

"Let me finish, ma'am. I say _responsible _owners. Contrary to the media, the vast majority of NRA members – as in any organization – are everyday Americans who use their Second Amendment right responsibility, practicing common-sense safety, use, and storage guidelines…

"And _then_ you've got the outliers, the nuts who hunt prairie dogs with Armalite 15s and the upper echelons who treat any restriction as an imminent terrorist threat. If it was the majority running the thing, I wouldn't have a problem, but as it is..." He shrugged.

"But, wait, sir," Ron blurted, looking confused, "Aren't you military?"

"Which _doesn't_ mean I can't think for myself, young man," Simms said, bearing down hard. "Do _not_ make quick assumptions, sir. Nine times out of ten you will die because you made an assumption that didn't follow through... Remember that life _never_ works out into tidy little bundles…" He eased up on him, knowing from Ron's expression the message had gone through.

"Anyway... The gun violence problem is out of hand in this country. For practical self-defense purposes, many people don't _need_ what they're buying. I can use what I'm showing you 'cause I've been rigorously trained and certified. Many people aren't.… And I'm not too keen on the idea of a bunch of civvies running around like maniacs with fully-automatic weapons." He smiled grimly. "That's _our_ job."

The icy, disapproving expression slid off Kim's face and she grinned a little. _At least he's got a sense of humor._

Their trainer stopped pacing and again put his hands on the gun cases, leaning across the table toward her. "Okay, guys, the spiel I'm gonna give ya is the same talk I gave to each and every green-ass Marine that came to my range… 'Scuse the language. I could see their eyes twitching every time – they wanted at the gun rack behind me. But before I even let 'em through the safety gate, I drilled this into 'em, and I kept drilling. Testosterone poisoning and general dumbassery were not permitted. My range had one of the best safety records around, and I don't intend to break that streak today. Got it?"

Kim and Ron nodded solemnly.

"Good… Now, you need to be sure yer gun and ammunition are compatible… If you're in a war zone and load the wrong ammunition, you'll jam the gun - you're dead.

"Carry your guns safely We'll provide you with NRA-approved holsters, but never leave your gun just lying around, 'specially if there're kids around. This ties into another point – never climb a tree or fence, or jump som'pin, with a loaded gun. That's important, since you guys do all that outdoor action stuff… You could blow off you leg, hip, arm, or the bullet could go into your stomach or chest. Unload the gun beforehand, and you won't run that risk.

"Be sure of your target - and what's beyond. This is especially true for you guys if you're in a hostage sitch. Be aware of the strength of the bullet and gun, and if there are civilians around. Think first, shoot second. Common sense, really."

Without warning, he slammed his hand down on the table, making the firearms and teens jump about six inches. "_Listen up!_" he roared. Watching the reaction, he arched his eyebrows merrily, smiling a little. "…Always gets 'em... These next three are The Big Three. Pop a little safe open in yer head, stuff 'em in, and lock it up tight.

"Always, _always_ keep your finger off the trigger until you are ready to shoot The safety helps, but don't put your life on it… It's a machine. Machines break.

"Make absolutely, _positively_ sure the gun's not loaded. And even if it isn't, handle that thing as carefully and cautiously as if had a _full_ magazine in it.

"Most importantly, _keep yer gun pointed in a safe direction at all times!_ Never, ever just wave the gun around; it can go off. _Never_ point it at someone you don't want to kill. Many a good kid's bought 'cause of that.…." He leaned down, so he was eye-level with his charges. "If nothing else, remember this one. It trickles down – keep 'er pointed right, and the others become a lot less of an issue... Got it?"

"Yessir," replied the teens.

"Good. Repeat them back to me."

They did.

"Excellent. Now, one more time so you've really got it."

After the teens replied to his request, Simms clicked the hasps and opened the two cases to expose twin, dully-glinting, obsidian handguns nestled in royal blue egg-crate padding.

Kim audibly gulped.

"Both of you will be receiving this handgun – the Smith and Wesson Sigma 40. They built her to compete with Glock, and the frame is made outta high-strength polymer to keep the weight down. Out of the box, she weighs one and two-thirds pounds and carries a fifteen-round mag. Of course, our weapons team has modded it from its stock design. You see the switch near the muzzle? That's for a small laser just above the bore so you can be sure of where you're aiming. Those other buttons? We'll get to those later…. I think it will be a better idea to focus on the gun you will personally use and keep, and then move on to other weapons," he finished, gesturing to the tables beside him.

Kim kicked the floor nervously. As the toe of her boot contacted the floor, it _tinked_ dully.

"What was that?" inquired Simms, eyebrows squinching.

"Oh, sorry," Kim said apologetically, giving the floor a more distinct kick to confirm the noise was from her, "My shoes have a steel tip."

"Can I feel?" asked Simms.

"Sure."

He squatted down, knees popping like miniature fireworks, and prodded his thumb into the toe of her boot. Feeling the metal, he winced happily. "That'll take a bite out of somethin'!"

"Yea, it accelerates my foot in a roundhouse kick, giving it a harder blow. It also protects my feet from being crushed. They were a little heavy at first, but I got used to it… And plus side, when I take them off, I can run like the wind at track meets."

"I once tried out for track in middle school," piped up Ron. "On my first day, I got tangled up in those wooden hurdles. They had to use th' Jaws of Life to get me out. I never quite figured out how that happened…" he finished, looking puzzled.

Kim rolled her eyes and smiled.

"O…kay," said the general, looking pitifully at the blond-haired boy. "Back to business. First thing to know is how to load your weapon. These are double-action pistols," waving a hand over the Sigmas, "They're loaded with magazines." He pulled a small black box off one of the ammunition carts. Through the opening at one end, they could see the dull gleam of the brass casings. "This is your standard .40 metal-jacketed ammunition. It has a hard point designed to maximize penetration. Usually, you'd be using JHPs – Jacketed Hollow Points – designed to shаtter and mushroom inside someone, so the bullet doesn't go through them and injure a hostage or equipment. However, we'll be using these today because we're using cardboard targets instead of ballistics gel –"

"Ballistics gel?" asked Ron.

"It's a rubbery synthetic compound designed to mimic human flesh."

"Ohhh. Ick."

"So, you now have your ammo and the gun, and now we have to put them together. There's a hole in the bottom of the grip, or butt," continued Simms, turning the guns to expose a large, square cavern in the base of the handle. "You have to slide the load into the magazine with the _heel_ of your hand, so your fingers don't get pinched. Push it until you hear a click and the load is flush with the stock…

"Make sure the safety is _on_ – it's the small push-button on the right side, above and to the left of the trigger. It's green when the safety's on and red when it's not. Right now, it's green; the trigger is locked and won't move if you pull on it. Until I give the command of "Unlock Safety," that button is to **remain** green…

"Now, you try," he said, handing them each their weapons and a magazine.

Kim slowly took the firearm. Her right palm settled instinctively into the swells and dips in the hand grip, the composite cover easily soaking up the thin film of sweat on her hands and leaving her in control. Her index finger began unconsciously drifting toward the trigger. She jerked it away and settled it on the slide. The pistol was heavy, but not unbearable. She thought having plastic in the frame was odd, but with modern technology, not out of the ordinary. Remembering the small, cool box in her other hand, she eased it into the stock, giving it a gentle _thump_ with the base of her hand. It didn't move. She whacked it harder, and it suddenly released and quickly _ca-clicked_ into the magazine. It startled her into an "Oh!" of surprise.

"What?" asked Ron as he glanced up, already finished loading his magazine and in the process of checking out the other buttons.

"Nothing. It just wouldn't go in, that's all," she answered, blushing slightly.

"Yeah," nodded Simms, "You have to give it a pretty hard whack. Use the button up on top of the gun to manually take it out."

She ejected the magazine into her hand and tried again. This time, it slid smoothly into the butt with a satisfying _click_ and locked.

"Good; take it out again," said Simms, as she did so. "That's the manual, normal way to load. We've also developed a faster way to do it. You both wear belts around your waists when fighting, don't you?"

"Yeah….?"

"I'm just glad you're used to the weight…" he said, pulling an olive belt with pouches attached from under the table. "'Cause for this mission, you'll be wearing these: they're ammo belts. They carry the reloads you might need. Put 'er on and see how they fit."

They complied, exchanging their old Army-surplus belts containing various small gadgets for these new ones. Kim noticed the belt was slightly heavier - each box contained a full load instead of the mishmash of objects in her gear belt - and slightly bulkier. She adjusted it on her hips – it was still as comfortable, though. Army command must have asked Wade for her specs. Each kevlar-cloth pouch bulged tightly, fitted precisely to the magazine. A cloth snap-cover folded over the top of each pouch. Popping a snap and lifting the cover, she saw a magazine protruding about a half an inch over the top of the pouch. Surrounding the open magazine top was a metal collar riveted into the pouch's upper hem.

"This loading procedure uses some of the buttons on top of the gun. See the large button in front of the hammer? That's the release/eject button. Press it now."

Ron pressed, hearing metallic springs opening and closing inside the magazine. "Neat! Whadda do with it?"

"Glad you asked. Jam the .40 onto one of your belt pouches."

Kim followed his instruction, firmly inserting the butt onto one of the magazines, and heard the familiar, sharp _ca-click!_ As she pulled the gun off the now-empty holder, eyes wide, she found a fresh magazine properly loaded into the gun. "Wow!"

"Pretty neat, huh? That's what I said when those crazy kids down at R n' D came up with it! The butt fits onto the collar, and there's a notch inside that release springs holding the magazine down. Activated, the springs ram the mag up into the stock. It's a lot faster than hand-loading, let me tell you! Once the ammo's spent, the gun automatically ejects the mag with a bit of force, so you don't have to take it out."

Suddenly, a light when on in Kim's head. "I know where you got this from – I've seen it before," she said slowly, ""You... didn't happen to borrow this thing off Lara Croft… did you?"

Beside her, Ron let out a low wolf-growl.

The general cracked a thin, sheepish smile. "Yeah. She let our R n' D team copy her design, once we'd paid her enough. I think she shanked us a bit on the price, but hey…" he shrugged. "If it works… We'd improved it, but it'd been sitting for a while. This mission'll be its first official run. When I called Lara to tell her who'd be doin' the first go, she chuckled a little and said, "Have fun." You know her?"

"I've met her, and helped her out of jams a couple times. We've worked together once or twice in Cambodia. She just seemed a little, I dunno, _rouge_ for me. Taking those artifacts for money. Plus, she seems a little… trigger-happy, blazing away at anything that moved with her twin .45's."

"Hmmm. I've gotten that vibe a bit before… It's been reported her RoE are sometimes a little… _unorthodox_…" He coughed. "But she's an excellent shot. Seen her in action in here a few times myself. However, enough about her. I'm here to train you two, and we don't have much time. Ready to begin?"

"Yes, sir," she said softy. After a slight pause, stronger, "YES, sir."

Ron echoed in a slightly more confident, "Yessir!" However, Kim could see apprehension in his hazel eyes that his voice did not show.

"Arrrite, load 'em up."

Ron inserted a magazine into his weapon. Kim was already loaded.

_For the first time in my life,_ she realized with a snap, _I'm holding a loaded, ready-to-fire heavy pistol..._

"All right," said Simms, walking up to the iron barrier separating the shooting gallery from the preparation area. He flicked a small lever, and several human cardboard silhouettes marked with various points descended from the ceiling. "You probably already know how to hold this shape from your grappler-gun experience," he said as they drew abreast of him. "The stance you want is planted, shoulder-width apart, facing the target. It's called the Weaver stance, if you're interested. After you've worked with this awhile, I'll show you how to stand to reduce your profile.

"Ms. Possible, you were wondering about the recoil. To control it, lock your arms. Place the palm of your free hand under the one holding the gun. The "U" formed by the thumb and index goes downrange," demonstrating on his own Glock he pulled out of an interior shirt pocket. "The impact of firing is absorbed by your forearms."

"O… Okay," said Kim, emulating him, trying to keep her emotions under control.

"Now, make sure the gun's pointed _downrange_. **Unlock Safety**."

Kim pressed the small green button, and it flipped red with an ominous _clink_.

"The gun's now 'hot.' Don't put your hand on the trigger until I say so. To pull the trigger, wrap your index around it and gently squeeze. Don't **pull** the trigger; just squeeze harder… Ok, put your finger on the trigger. Don't fire until I give the command."

"S-s-sure," she said, placing her finger a hairsbreadth away from the metal tongue.

"Sight down the barrel, aiming for a figure's critical mass."

She nodded silently, trying to line up the three phosphorescent dots that formed the Sigma's iron sight.

"Square toward the target, take a deep breath, and hold to keep from screwing your aim. Okay, and three… two… one… and… Kim?"

"_What!_"

"It helps if you have your eyes _open_."

Kim opened eyes she didn't know she had closed, and saw Simm's smiling face.

Ron snickered.

The snicker smashed the tense, hard atmosphere, as if someone holding a breath had just released it. "Oh… sorry," she muttered, chagrined.

"Kimberly, relax. This isn't the end of the world. Don't get afraid. Don't let your mind get in the way. Just relax. Remember: Don't think – do… Don't think – Just do. Ready to try again?"

"Yessir," as she sighted the weapon again.

"Alrighty… face target… sight… stance… Ready?"

She nodded, not taking her eyes off her target

"Okay, and three… two… one…"

…The world stopped, hung, Matrix-like, for that silent, fractional breath of a second…

"…Fire."

Kim, cool, calm, with both eyes open, breath held, squeezed the trigger.

To be continued...


	5. Rapid Fire

**Chapter 5: Rapid Fire**

April 24th, 2007  
Andrews Air Force Base  
Heavy Weapons Firing Range  
10:23 AM

_CAA-RAAACK!_

The weapon discharged with an earsplitting retort and shot a tongue of flame and sulfuric smoke from the muzzle. The bullet whizzed too fast to be seen down the range, and hit the trap with a distant _cling!_

Suddenly, it was all over. The blast reverberated around the cavernous room, growing fainter with each echo. The gun was still except for a trendel of acrid smoke issuing from the barrel.

Kim stared at the gun grasped in her locked, still -outstretched hands, "Wow!..."

"Ha," chuckled Simms, "We get that a lot from the greenies who come through here... So, what'd you hit?"

Kim squinted. A small semicircle of cardboard was missing from the head of the nearest silhouette. "Errr, his head?"

"Was that what you were aiming for?"

"Ummm, no. I was shooting for his neck."

"You must've let the recoil have too much slack. Your arms moved, or you didn't hold it tight enough. How was it compared to your grappler?"

"Actually sir, it was more or less the same. The grappler has to fire a bigger charge, but at less speed. I guess it was the 'bang' that startled me."

"We can train that instinct out of you, don't worry." He turned to Ron. "You ready, Mr. Stoppable?"

"Yessir!"

"Good. Step up to the firing line."

Ron drew up to the metal gate with a cool, cocky, look-at-me-I'm-not afraid-of-the-big-bad-.45 demeanor.

"Ok, now stance... sight your weapon... **'Unlock Safety,'** -the light again glowed red - "...and one... two... three... shoot."

Ron fired, and another penetrating _KA-BLAAAM!_ echoed throughout the room.  
Ron's overconfident expression lasted until one of the paper figures broke loose from its string and gently wafted to the floor, and the round softly ricocheted off the ceiling.

Kim doubled in barely-stifled laughter at the blond's bewildered expression.

"Ron," asked the general, "what were you aiming for?"

"His chest," mumbled Ron, turning an ever-so-slight shade of cherry.

"You had the same problem as Kim, only more so. You just can't fire the weapon like the do in movies; they hold it far too loose, their posture's all wrong, and the recoil is exaggerated. You have to fire as taught, understand?"

"Yes."

"You have both fired you first shot. You are now down to four casings... this gun normally has 7 rounds, but the modifications for the belt-loader had to reduce the count down. Remember five; it becomes the number you live and die by - count the number of shots fired. Know when to reload, or you'll be pulling the trigger and nothing will happen, which is NOT a good "sitch," as you call it, to be in during war.'  
'Ok... now both of you come here," he said, pulling two packets containing a pair of neon green plugs out of his chest pocket as they came. "I let you fire your first shots without protection to give you a feel of the gun's sound. But now we'll use these," jiggling the plastic bags, "These are one-day use earplugs. It's gonna get loud in here fast, and we don't want you to damage your hearing. When you put them one, make sure their in _tight._ Remember, it's harder to hear with them in, so do NOTHING without me giving the signal first. It's safety 24/7 on this range." He pulled a professional pair of earmuffs from under the gun tables and clapped them over his bald head.

"Urrrg, these are gonna be _nasty_ when we take 'em out," grimaced Ron has he screwed the neon plug into his inner ear.

"Now, Ms. Possible- " he said in a slightly elevated voice due to the ear pieces.

"Gen. Simms, we've known each other for two years. You can call me Kim."

"Yes, Ms. Poss- sorry, _Kim._ Yes, Kim. Step back up to the firing line..."

"Why am I the guinea pig here?" she muttered to herself.

"...And take stance. I want you to empty the entire chamber of the gun into a figure as fast as you can. We're gonna get fast, and this gets more risky, but it's a feat you must master for battle. Just keep control of the gun, and have it always pointed downrange."

"Allright," she said more confidently, taking a deep breath.

"Arms up; gun in position; gun sighted; **Unlock Safety;** _hand on trigger;_ and One... two... threeee... shoot!"

Kim squeezed through the rounds as fast as her cautious nerves would allow, the .44 snorting and bellowing like a thing alive. Four gray punctures blossomed in the card stock starting in the sternum area and going upward, each slightly over the other.  
The sound abruptly cut off, and the spend cartridge shot out of the butt and clanged as only a hollow metal box can on the concrete floor.

"Ohhh," gasped Ron, "so thaaat's how that's the auto discharge works! Coolieo!"

Kim," barked Simms, "VERY good job! You're letting your aim drift as you fire, but unless that paper's tripping on PCP, he'd be dead anyway. Reload... Ron, forward. Sight, stance... **unlock safety,** aim, and one... two... three... shoot!"

Ron's shots were more in a hazy circle than a line, but were still within the target.

"You two are some of the faster learners I've taught!"

They beamed, although Kim with a hint of doubt behind the facade.

"I guess it would be your mission experience. Now, watch me."  
Simms whipped his Glock out of a hidden holster, leveled, and fired before the teens could take a breath. A ragged open hole the size of a baseball appeared in the dead center of a far figures' torso.  
"That's about as fast as you need to get to. But since I'm dealing with Team Possible, for whom nothing is Impossible, I think that ain't a problem."

"Where did you get that _GOOD?_" gasped Kim.

"Area 5-- errr, the place were I work gives me an edge."

"C'mon G-man, you don't have to cover "51" in front of us!" blurted Ron.

"Yes, I know. Sorry. I'd partially forgot you were there with me. But to your mission log and the media, that mission _never happened._ It's CIA Level 6 classification, unless we do a "double-negative."

Beside him, Ron groaned from exasperation. "I won't even try to argue with the logic... I won't, I wont!"

"Ok, nuff chitchat. Back to business. Kim, forward! Stance, sight, **unlock**... one, two, three, shoot!...

April 24th, 2007  
Andrews Air Force Base  
Heavy Weapons Firing Range  
10:34 AM

* * *

1:08 PM

"Good, Ron! Take a step back! Now Kim, forward! Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it... shoot!"

Kim, her fingers poised, hovering, over the hip holster of her Special, plunged her digits into the leather case and sprung out the weapon.  
Unlocking the safety on the way to firing position in one smooth motion, she emptied the chamber into a cardboard target, her normally friendly mouth drawn into a thin hard line of determination. A staccato puncture the size of a grapefruit grew in the chest of a near figure. Immediately, she was engulfed in a small acidic haze. She coughed.

Simms slammed his finger down on the button of a stopwatch and glanced at it. "Good, good, 2.67 seconds. Ron, you were 2.95. You're getting pretty adept at this -"

Noticing Kim's plight, he flipped a small switch on the wall of the firing chamber. After a second of silence, a low _whirrrr_ enveloped the ceiling, and the slight fog of smoke streamed upward and out of the area.  
"Ceiling blowers. They come in handy when we have a crowd of people firing... By the way, how was lunch?"

Ron moaned. "Eating was two _hours_ ago! I make it a point to have a scrumptious morsel of snackage every hour!"

"I have leftovers from a RME. Do you want some?"

Ron blanched. "Soorry, not that desperate..."

Rufus, placed on the tables because he barely hold (let alone aim) anything bigger than a derringer, agreed.

The top brass turned to Kim. "Kimberly, what've you learned?"

Kim held up a hand and ticked down fingers, "One, the rules and safety precautions of a firearm," she lowered a finger, "Two, how to load and fire said firearm," another finger, "Three, how to shoot from a neutral position without blowing your foot off, and Four," she wrung her head to the side as if to clear it, "Earplugs don't do a single _damn thing!_"

Simms smiled. "Well, maybe not, but they DO break up the direct sound waves from reaching your eardrums. Keep them in; we're about to get to an even louder portion of our lesson."

Kim shrugged and followed him and Ron back over to the table. Simms stopped in front of the beginning of the row of semiautomatics and machine guns. Ron's eyes lit up slightly.

"Ronald, you'll be working mostly with these. It'll be your job to provide a cover of fire while Kim makes a break for it-"

"-Awww, why am I _ALWAYS_ the distraction?!?"

"You're not. You provide cover and suppressant fire. That is often crucial to the success or failure of a mission. It prevents the enemy from raising his head without it getting blown off..."

The redhead grimaced.

"...And if he can't raise his head, he can't return fire, and if he can't return fire, he can't kill you. It was used as a common tactic in Iraq against insurgents... but you know that firsthand, right?

"Uh-huh," they replied.

"The rules for gun safety apply even more stringently here with these heavier weapons. You were able to get 5 shots off in 3 seconds; these could get off 75 to 100 in the same time. They're harder to aim, and react to hand movements more. Pay attention, know what you're doing, and follow the rules. Save the blood on the business end for Afghanistan, alright?"

"Yep!" said them, Kim looking slightly alarmed at the last sentence.

"Kim, you'll be dealing more with accurate pistols and single shot weapons, like sniper rifles -"

"Sniper rifles?!?"

"Yes. You might not need them very often, but it's useful to have training in them. Do you have a apprehension of them in particular?"

"No. It's just after that mess in Virginia... Muhummad and Malvo... the altered car... attacks all in the DC, Richmond, and Maryland areas... it kinda got a bad rap."

Simms looked disgusted. "Those little b- sorry. They were sick. They used their knowledge in evil and twisted ways, and paid the price. Don't let them set an example, but as a warning. Use these things only when absolutely necessary, and for the right reasons."

Still with a slightly ill look, Simms hefted the first rifle in the line. It registered something in Kim's brain - it was the clearly outlined symbol of hatred and violence shoved defiantly into a ash choked, blood-red sky by furious mobs.  
"This is the Kalashnikov AK-47. It was made by the USSR in 1947, and has since then spread worldwide. It is a very popular weapon with insurgents and revolutionaries because of its low cost, high power, and near indestructibility. It is a 7 mm caliber, fires 600 rounds a minute, or 10 a second with a 40-round magazine. It has an effective range of 400 meters. It weighs between 5 and 14 kilograms."

He put the rifle down and picked up another laying beside it, a gray one this time.  
"This is the U.S. Military's M-16. It is now being used by our troops around the world. It is our primary assault rifle. It has a caliber of 5.6mm, and has a magazine capacity of 30 rounds. It weighs around 4 kilos and has a range of 460 meters The M-16 fires- "

"-650 to 750 RPM!" Ron blurted.

Both Simms and Kim stared at him. The general's eyebrows formed twin copies of the St. Louis Arch. "Where'd ya learn that?"

Ron looked slightly embarrassed. "Errr, _America's Army, V. 2.0._"

Simms grinned. "So you like our game?"

Ron nodded, "It was a lot better from the earlier version; the AI's improved, the FRPS has a higher fluency, and the pigmants-per-pixle are enhanced, giving it a higher 3-D look..."

Kim was lost. "Wha-? What's this "America's Army?"

Ron looked condescendingly at his female friend. "_America's Army_ was a downloadable computer game issued by the military in late 2004. It used large amounts of information to make the game as realistic as possible. It has weapons from all over the world you can use and train with in real-time internet battles. But there were still a few glitches. They offered an upgrade a few months back."

"Is that the game you're always playing on the Kimmunicator, hogging the batteries? It looks like you're always playing in down-town Baghdad... You say it's realistic? It looks pretty gor-" she broke off, and her eyes widened. "Oh."

"Weelll, Kim," said Simms after a moment of deliberation, looking slightly worried, "Combat can be rather... err... _messy._ We exaggerated the gore slightly to keep up with popular games such as _Doom 4._ But advances in the medical sciences and personal battle armor have caused a dramatic decline in battlefield deaths. There's always the possibility, however. That's why we're training you now. Besides, doesn't it get a little rough in your martial arts battles?"

"I guess. I hadn't really thought about that. It usually stays un-leathal."

"Sadly, that might have to change in this instance..." He paused. "But we'll cross that when it comes. Right now, I'm teaching you just how to use the weapons."

He picked up a third assault rifle, gray again, with a hollow butt. A large handle was located on top, and much of the barrel was enclosed in a boxy looking chamber. The magazine was located to the left side of the gun, instead of directly below it. "This is the German G36 assault rifle. It's fairly modern, as of 1990's. It's made of composite materials and has a skeleton butt, making it light and sturdy. The different combinations this gun can be used in make it very versatile, and it can handle various magazine cartridges. This switch on the side can turn this from a full-auto to a simi-auto. It has a caliber of 5.56, and carries a 30-round magazine. It can fire 750 RPM - "

"RPM?" asked Kim.

"Rounds Per Minute," explained Ron.

Kim did the mental math and gasped. "...That translates to about 13 shots a second!"

"Right. You can see why we have to be so careful-"

Ron looked confused, "Wait, wait. If we're trying to kill people, isn't safety kinda, uh, moot?"

Simms glared. "It prevents you yourself from getting hurt by your own weapon. It prevents you from hurting bystanders or objects unimportant to the mission. It prevents you from misusing your weapon, preventing unnecessary deaths!" He softened, "...and a LOT of paperwork."

Ron grinned meekly. "Huh, sorry dude. I didn't know you'd get so... tweaked."

The stocky man made to run a hand through his hair, realized he did not have any, and lowered it. "I guess I'm stressed. It's all the events of - was it only yesterday? - and trying to teach you guys. Sorry." He sucked in a breath and blew it back out. "Well, I've gone over main assault rifles, so Kim, I'll show you snipers," he said, walking further down the table.

_Oh, brother,_ she thought, and shivered.

He stopped in front of a trio of long, low weapons that radiated an stated menace. All had a object that looked like a telescope fixed on top, and an elongated barrel.  
Simms picked up the first. It bore more resemblance to its automatic brethren to its right, Kim and Ron's left.  
"This is the Russian Dragunov SVD. See how it looks like more an assault rifle? It started out as an infantry weapon. This switch on the side can turn this from a single-shot into a semiautomatic. It's very rugged, and can be used in battle situations. It has a 10-round magazine, and can be fired at 30 rounds a minute. If you aim, you can do about 3 - 5. The scope is very accurate for a rifle of this type; it has a range of 600 meters."

Ron bent down to look through scope, nearly taking his eye out in the process, "OW!... Ohhh, coolieo! I can see the rivets at the other end of the room!... Do you think I could take just the scope? It'd make babe-watching a lot eas-"  
He caught Kim's glare. "Ummm, nevermind..."

Simms continued, "The scopes on these rifles are truly modern marvels. You could pick out the suit and number of a deck of cards at 100 meters. One shot - one kill. It's what these were designed for."

"Neat."

He picked up the next rifle. It was a flat, ungleaming black on a bipod. The shape was closer to that of the standard hunting rifle. " The SIG-Sauer SSG 3000. It contains a 5-round magazine chamber. It doesn't have a magazine box port, right? You have to load each casing separately with this little door beneath the sight." He pulled a small knob protruding from the right side of the gun, exposing a small bullet-sized cavern. "It's called a breechloader." Simms took a larger casing from one of the carts and slipped it into the hole. "It's spring-loaded, so more bullets force it down." He handed it to Kim along with another bullet, "You try."

She took the rifle gingerly, and nearly dropped it from its unexpected weight, "How much does this weigh?!!" she gasped.

"About 6.2 kilos. Stainless steel."

Biting her lip and balancing the rifle with one hand and a casing in the other, Kim slipped the brass into the magazine pointy end first, like a battery. After a moment of resistance, it slid into place on well-oiled tracks with a solid _ka-chunk!_

"Good. Ron, you try."

After the boy successfully loaded a cartridge, the general set the gun down and ejected the bullets onto a table before picking up the third rifle. It was similar in design to the SIG, but the butt of the rifle was adjustable.

"This is the US Army's M24. It is fed strictly by breech, and can hold 5 rounds. It has a range of 800 meters. An interesting note is that it has an adjustable stock; smaller people like you, Kim or Ron, can adjust it to suit them. It has a softer learning curve because the x10 magnifying scope has a range finder and compensates for bullet parabola."

"Parabola?" wondered Ron.

"Think of a soccer ball, Ron," explained Kim, "When you kick it, it makes an arch, lowest at the bottoms and highest in the middle."

"You know each other well, don't you?"

"It's the only way I could get him through math..."

"Mrs. Whisp was out to get me, Kim! She really was! She was eeevill, I tell you!"

Chuckling at Ron's antics, Simms bent below the table to retrieve the last weapon. With a slight grunt, he hefted the .50 caliber off the floor. Extending a pinion from the base of the weapon, he fastened it to a small protrusion on the metal barrier in front of them.

Wiping his brow, he explained. "This is the famed Browning .50 caliber "Lightweight" heavy machine gun -"

"Lightweight heavy?"

"It means the gun's been lightened for more mobile use. They took off some of the heavier parts, and put more composites in the rest."

He pointed to a small ribbed baffle on the front of the gun. "See this little thingy? It's a flash suppressor. It is designed to deaden the fire from the muzzle to prevent you from giving away your position."

His finger traveled down the gun to stop at a perforated cylinder surrounding most of the barrel. "This is the heat dissipater. This weapon is air-cooled, and the barrel gets very hot. This draws the heat away from it during use, and the holes provide more surface area to cool. Don't touch it after heavy firing - it can get hot enough to sizzle skin."

Simms gestured at a lever located above the heavy-duty trigger guard, "Trigger safety switch. Very important. It keeps the gun from discharging in small areas... which is very _bad_, to say the least... Now the stats..."

Putting a finger against his temple as if to conjure the needed information from the confines of his brain, "This gun," tapping the stock, "Has a caliber of, obviously, point 50. It weighs only 27 kilograms, and has adjustable rate of fire of 550-750 rounds per minute, so it's kinda slow for a machine gun. But the bullet size makes up for that... This baby's loaded in a different way than the others. Have either one of you seen Rambo?

Ron beamed.

"Remember those belts around their shoulders?" Simms continued, "Well, this is a bit like that."

With Kim's help, he lifted a olive-drab box about a foot long and half a foot wide and deep from the bottom shelf of a munitions cart.

"What's in here?! Lead?!"

"Just about..." He lifted a curious lever on the side of the box and pried up the lid. The gleam of brass casings blazed upward, dancing upon their faces like rippled water. The bullets were folded on top of each other up to the brim, and as long as the box's width. Simms pulled string out and draped it between his arms. "This is called a belt. There are 100 bullets to a belt. The bullets interlock with each other, and separate once fired. Watch how to load it."  
He took the step between the table and gun, the belt slinking out as he went, unraveling like a string of new Christmas tree lights. He plugged one end of the belt into a hole in the side of the gun, and gave a firm tug to latch it into the feeding mechanisms, "The bullets go in this side, are fired, and the empty casings shoot out the other side," he said, gesturing to a bigger hole on the other side of the weapon. "Watch," he paused. "Oh, and you might wanna cover your ears a wee bit..."  
He swiveled the piece firmly downrange and squeezed two handles protruding perpendicularly from the rear of the gun.

Instantly, a teeth-shaking RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT erupted from the gun, a blaze of fire shooting from the elongated barrel. A ray of liquid fire shot down the range and buried themselves in the trap. "Tracers!" Simms shouted over the din of the gun, his arms vibrating forcibly from the recoil. He let go of the triggers, the last casings clattering and skittering on the concrete floor.

Slightly deafened, he turned to the pair, "Whoooie, nothing like hot lead in the morning! Excellent for smashing watermelons..." He smiled. "So that's the .50 caliber. I don't expect you to use that one much, seeing as the Geneva convention prohibits them from being aimed directly at people. One or two rounds could take an arm off... This gun has a long and colorful history, and is extremely versatile; it can be used from a tripod, an ack-ack mount, and it can be pintle, turret or coaxila mounted on combat vehicles or aircraft -"

Ron's hand bobbled in the air.

"You have something to add, Ron?"

"Uhhh, yeah. It was used extensively in WWII, on Jeeps, tanks, and vehicles. Ummm, it was put on the P-51 Mustang, P-47 Thunderbolt, P-38 Lightning, Grumman Hellcat and Wildcat, and Corsair. It was famed on the B-17 Flying Fortress, with a total of, errrr," he squinted, trying to remember, "11 machine guns."

The general and Kim looked at him in astounded approval.

"_Ron,_" spluttered Kim, "_why don't you remember like that for school?!?_"

He grinned. "I have a selective memory of thoroughly useless information... I can name how many Smarty Marts now have self-serve checkouts, and all the members of Captain Napalm's Thermonuclear League of Justice too, if you want!"

"Thanks; I think I'll pass..."

"Where did you learn those facts?" pondered Simms.

"Huh? There's this comic book store in Middleton, and I have money from Naco royalties, so -"

"No, no, the machine gun info."

"Oh, _Medal of Honor V: Push to Berlin._"

Simms smirked slightly, "You sure know a lot... now tell me, with all your experience, have you ever fired one of these guns behind me?"

"Uhhh, besides the Browning? Ummmm, noooo..."

"Thought so..." he picked up two M-16s. "Now, under U.S. law, you're not supposed to use military-grade firearms until you're 21. But seeing as you two are hardly civilians, and the circumstances of this mission, we… bent… the rules a bit. You're gonna have to hand this thing back when you're done, though.'  
'To fire this weapon, you attach a box magazine to the feeder under the rifle." Simms carefully handed the weapons and their accompanying rounds to Kim and Ron, and picked up the German G36. "Load it," – they did so – "and pay attention. You can't fire these things like they do in the movies, spraying from the hip. While it looks cool and is fun, it's wildly inaccurate and exposes more critical mass to enemy fire,"

Ron's face drooped slightly.

"…Instead, place the butt of the rifle into your shoulder, between the ball socket of the arm and the collarbone," he said, demonstrating. "Curl your firing arm around the stock and trigger area. Place your free hand in the textured handgrip area beneath the barrel. Good. Yer shoulder takes the impact of the recoil, and the hands keep the gun steady. This also covers more of your head and chest area, protecting you 'better'. Now for stance – keep your feet shoulder-width apart with one leg in front of the other. This helps maintain balance during firing..."

"O…k…" muttered Kim, concentrating on the stance and getting a familiar edge in her stomach over the amount of power the gun she now held had.

"Remember," called Simms over their heads, "Keep them pointed downrange. Small hand movements have a big effect, and your reaction time is slower…… Ready?"

"Yessir!"

"Stance……Sight……Unlock safety……and one, two, three…**fire!**"

Kim depressed the trigger, and instantly a nerve-shаttering bark burst out right beneath her ear. The gun slammed backward into her shoulder with a steady pulsating force, skewing her hail of lead to the right; spent casings whizzing and popping over her arm, strewing and tinkling on the floor. Sweat streaming down her face, she forced the gun over onto a target. After a few more seconds of tearing noise, pounding vibration and shredding cardboard, the weapon suddenly stilled and fell quiet.

She glanced over at Ron, who was still firing. His teeth were bared into a snarl, eyebrows angled, torso vibrating from the recoil. Staccato flashes of light from the muzzle threw his face into sharp relief like lightning. Moments later, his gun also silenced. He let it drop from his shoulder, adrenaline coursing out of him. He wiped his brow.

Kim turned back to her target. It was raggedly ripped in two. The other half was lying on the floor, looking decidedly worse for wear. Kim suddenly had a vision that replaced the cardboard with flesh, blood everywhere, organs– _Ew, Ew, Ew Eww, Ewwwwww!_, she thought, desperately trying to flush the image from her head.

"…So," said Simm's voice, bringing Kim's thoughts back to Earth with a bump, "that's an automatic. Good job, Kimberly, you nearly destroyed yours…"

_Oooo, gee, thanks…_

"…And Ronald, you did an admirable job yourself. Your motor control is getting better. Now I want you to fire a few more boxes to get the hang of it, and then we're done!"

They went through more than 'a few boxes,' spending another hour at the range. Kim learned to keep her fire under control, how to make an even carpet of bullets for suppressant fire, and to fire in short bursts to conserve ammunition. Her right ear grew numb, and she still couldn't shake that horrible image… Ron, on the other hand, while not having 'fun', seemed more comfortable with the mechanics in general.

_Sheesh, and they say video games don't affect you..._

Finally, after waving away a cloud of sulfuric smoke, Simms removed his earmuffs. In the unexpected silence, Kim and Ron finished off the last rounds in the chamber, and then looked up.  
"Well, he said, "We're done for the day… lock the safety and put you weapons down!"

Smiling, Kim ejected the spent box from her rifle and laid them on the table. Ron stretched, rubbed his sore right shoulder, and did the same.

Kim went to place her handgun in the carrying case, only to find a blob of pink curled up inside it. She smiled, and then laughed. "Awww, Ron, look! Rufus finally found a comfy, quiet place to take a nap!

Ron chuckled, and patted his cargo pocket.

"C'mon Rufus, we're home bound, baby!"

Rufus disentangled himself from his sleeping spot with a huff of annoyance and grumpily hopped into Ron's pocket. Kim placed her firearm in its case and went to stand beside Simms at the entrance. Ron placed his gun in its repective case and joined them. With a muffled _flick!_ on the wall, the room once more became a pitch-black cave, penetrated only by a narrow shaft of late-afternoon sun. And even that vanished when Simms closed and locked the heavy steel door with a jail-cell crash.

With muscles tired, faces covered in gun grime and sweat, and ears ringing, they walked back to the Hummer. A faint spring breeze brought the smell of newly shorn grass from the buffer zone between the airstrip and the base and ruffled their hair slightly. Kim looked up at the drifting clouds gradually turning salmon from the waning, sinking sun. _Could It Be? __**How**__ could it be that it was only… yesterday?? It seems so long ago…_ With a sigh she opened the door and sunk into the bench seat.

April 24, 2007  
Andrews Air Force Base  
Firing Range parking lot  
5:36 PM

To be continued…


	6. Kimmunications

**6. Kimmunications**

April 24, 2007  
Andrews Air Force Base  
5:42 PM

The drive towards the base was a quiet one, each absorbed into their own thoughts. Kim stared out the window, head against the glass, crushing part of her auburn mane flat, and watching the scenery slip smoothly by without really focusing. Simms concentrated on the road, not wanting to intrude on the silence in the back seat. Ron, however, was in agony.

He hated long, uncomfortable breaks in conversation, and cast his pupils frantically out the window for a conversational topic. A Stryker _(wheeled tank)_ grumbled past in the opposite direction, towing a mobile antiaircraft artillery piece to further enforce a no-fly-zone over the base. His mind recognized the shape of the ack-ack gun, having seen it on another military base about three years previous.

"Gen. Simms," he said, breaking the silence. The general's eyes looked up, backwards in the rear view mirror. "…If you have such a hang of all this fire power and boom-boom stuff, why didn't you just rip out the big guns when Commodore Puddles did a number on Area 51?"

"Weeell…" said the general, thinking fast, "One, anything we shot at it wouldn't have been big enough to do much except make him angry. Two, Drakken and Shego came on us so fast we could hardly set up defenses-"

"But you were able to scramble some B2s and use giant dog whistles! And the B2s were loaded with dog treats? Why didn't you just blow the pink fuzz off the dog?!"

"Uhhhh… errrr…" He saw that even with all of his government skill, he couldn't put a fabricated answer past the boy. He caved. "I..." his face took suddenly took on one of great seriousness, "I… -and this is not going to leave this truck, understand?- I have a specialplaceinmyheartforpoodles," he mumbled quickly, turning burgundy.

Ron let out an involuntary cackle, which he instantly turned into a hacking cough as Simms glared bloody daggers at him.

"You?" asked Kim, with a slight smile playing over her face.

"Yea…" he muttered, hunkering over the steering wheel. "I couldn't bring myself to kill the thing, even if he was under Drakken and Shego's command. He just looked so cute, pink, and happy…" he said, looking miserable.

"Ha, think nothing of it. We won't let your secret out of the car… will we, _RON?_  
She elbowed Ron, who still had a silly grin plastered over his face.

"Ow! Huh? Yeah, what KP said…"

"Besides, we all have something we don't want broadcast," she continued, thinking back to her own Cuddle Buddies collection. _At least, not any more than they have to… Stupid Bonnie..._

Simms proceeded to drive through the military instillation, giving a detailed account of the base's features. He did this for about an hour, grumbling as he made random series of turns. He explained he was giving them a tour of what American military ingenuity could do, but as Ron would later comment with a devilish grin, "…the poodle business gave him quite a rattle!"

Finally, as golden columns of sunlight sunk to blinding eye-level, Simms pulled the large camouflaged vehicle into the barricaded parking lot of a long, kaki, three story building with official gray trim marked _Officer Lodgings_. Terraced balconies dotted with bright hanging plants extended outward from the second and third story rooms, and a tennis court and small swimming pool were just visible behind living quarters. The complex looked very like a glorified hotel, down to the check-in building with a neon sign reading _Recreational/Dining Center_. Removing their bags from the Hummve's trunk and beckoning for the teens to follow him, the general flashed his ID to the double shift of security at the parking lot entrance and building doors and led them inside. As they were ushered through revolving doors by soft elevator music, the tearing howl of a low-flying F-22, only slightly muffled by the building, ripped overhead, jolting them back to the reality that the rest of the world was still on a knife-edge.

The lobby gave a far better hint of the elevated state of its residents than the building's exterior did. Potted ferns lined the walls, plush ruby curtains draped over floor-length windows, an expensive carpet - albeit slightly crushed in high-traffic areas from combat boots - blanketed the floor, and brass chandeliers cast a warm, friendly light over the scene. Several generals with their distinctive brimmed hats waved to Simms from cushy chairs in the center of the room as they looked up from news scrolling across a big-screen television, as did the receptionist at the far end of the lobby. Many respectively put forefingers to the brim of their caps as Kim and Ron walked by.

They strolled through a carpeted hallway to a pair of elevators. Taking a small access card from a breast pocket, Simms swiped it through a device beside the lifts. It whirred and clicked for a moment before announcing in a nasally, metallic voice, _"Identity Confirmed: Theodosius Simms. Access Granted."_ The doors opened with a small rattle and the group ascended. The armored doors of the elevator opened again at the third floor into a ruler-straight corridor running the length of the building, further enhancing the air of a hotel.

"This way," said Simms, striding down the hall, making no more noise than a very heavy cat on the thick carpet. Kim and Ron padded after him as drab, thickly paneled doors flew by like telephone poles. The stocky man stopped at the very last one. As Kim leaned closer, she noticed it bore a small black nameplate with "General Simms" ramped across it in gold lettering.  
"I have permanent temporary lodgings here," he said, "It's my suite for when I have to spend a night on the base. You room is right across the hall. " He pointed. A door immediately to their left bore the plate, "**Guests of General Simms:** Kim Possible **and/or** Ron Stoppable" He unlocked the door and the trio stepped inside. The room was about 20 feet wide and 40 feet long with two spacious windows along the opposite wall. The door they were standing in was located in the bottom left corner. A night table stood between twin single beds on the wall to their right, and a television was located between the windows. A large mirror hung on the wall to their left, and cabinets, a small wet bar, and a door leading to a bathroom ran along the far wall.

Simms dumped their luggage onto the nearest bed and turned to Kim, "Sorry it isn't much; I know you've hit the sack in palaces. It's just for the night." He turned to Ron, "Go wash up. You've gun grime on your face." Ron trudged off to the sink, and Simms focused back on Kim as the whoosh of water issued from the washroom, "You have cable TV if you need it, and room service -"

A happy yell came from Ron's direction, and he stuck his head out the door, hair dripping. "Room service?!"

The general sighed. "Yes, Ron, room service. The base will foot the tab… Dry your head off."

Kim smiled, "Uhhh, with those two, I think you may have to scratch a few orders of plane parts!"

Simms chuckled.

After Ron walked out, hair frazzled from a towel, Simms continued, "There are two beds, so... ummm... errr... never mind..." he coughed and turned slightly red. "So, um, I'd like you to stay on this floor. There's a telephone on the desk over there if you need something, and my room's right across the hall." He turned to leave, but then stopped and stuck his head back through the door, "Get a good night's sleep, because tomorrow… you meet the squad!"

Kim sighed, turned from the closing door, and made her way to the television. Ron, on the other hand, leapt for the telephone and punched the number for room service from a laminated sheet beside the receiver.

"Hello?... Yea… Hi! I'd like to get somethin' to eat… What do I want? Spicy stuff…" He listened to the squabbling earpiece, "…Huhhh, cool… What are the chances you have Mexican?" He listened for a moment before his eyes widened to the size of hubcaps, "…_You have Bueno Nacho on the base!!?!_"

Rufus gave a small shrill squeak of ecstasy.

"Badical! I'll have a Chimerito Combo, Grande Sized, three orders of Nacos, a Mexi-Wrap…."

Kim smiled to herself at Ron's reaction. She idly leaned on the TV set and picked up a white pamphlet about the size of a large greeting card, marked TV Guide in official military stencil, and perused the various channels. On the page listing the various stations, her attention was caught and dragged to a listing highlighted in fading yellow marker. Beside the channel number and station name, someone had hastily scrawled FONTBradley Hand ITC17:00 – 17:30./FONTBradley Hand ITC _Odd,_ she thought, _Why would a military base carry-_

Ron's voice broke through her musings, "...Hey KP, would you like somethin' to eat?"

She looked up. The blonde boy was sitting on the edge of the bed next to the telephone, hand over the mike, looking expectantly at her. "Uhhh, a Vegi-Burrito would work great… and a water to drink, I guess."

Ron hastily relayed her order, "…and my compadre wants one #23 and a water. I'll have a Slurpster-" Rufus tugged frantically on Ron's shirt fringe- "Err, make that a King-Size Slurpster, please…" He paused while the phone chattered. "…So we're order 65, last of the day?... Sure, I'll tell the deliverer… Simms is paying for us… It'll be here in 10 minutes…Thanks, thanks alot! I'll be by the door!" He gently replaced the club back on its cradle before bolting to the door, watching it like an expectant puppy.

Kim turned back to the program guide and her interrupted thoughts. _…Why in the world would a military base carry the Disney Channel??_

Their meal arrived with naval precision; 10 minutes on the nose. Ron carefully balanced the order with one hand while heartily pumping the server's arm with his other, as Kim set up a folding card table and drew up a pair of chairs. Ron tucked in with gusto; his last meal before working hard again had been around noon. Kim finished her burrito quickly (Her well conditioned, athletic body did not need much else), so she settled back into the slight seat cushion to watch Ron eat voraciously, a dribble of melted cheese running down his chin. _It doesn't matter whether he's 2, 200, or 2,000 miles from home, Ron is still… Ron._ She smiled.

After they finished eating, Ron sunk into his bed, face toward the ceiling, to digest his meal. Kim inclined on her bed with arms spread behind her to support her torso and turned on the TV. The screen drove into the middle of a broadcast by the news channel NBS (_National Broadcasting Station_) – merger of CBS and NBC after the rise of independent media made two separate broadcasting companies unfeasible – of a disturbance in the Middle East. With a shock, Kim realized the location, corner of Ah-Haad and Patriot in downtown Baghdad, because she had been at that very location two years previous. The fiasco was the disturbing, but –she grimaced- not surprising, scene of a mob of radical, jihadist Arabs dancing in the street celebrating the American attacks and calling for the destruction of the Western world. One was ripping apart a small American flag with his teeth, and another was firing a rifle into the air. Suddenly, from the usual ring surrounding the insurgents, a group of annoyed and enraged Iraqis detached themselves from the crowd and slammed themselves into the surprised, shocked rioters. There was a scrum, fists flying, sporadic gunfire, and the radicals were dragged off-screen, yelling, by grim-faced locals. Seconds later, a small platoon of American soldiers arrived and dashed out of view after them.

She turned off the television and settled back onto the rose-patterned bedsheets, her head resting on interlocking fingers. From her reclined position, she could see out the window as the last bars of evening sun sunk below the city. A black, wafting smudge hovered on the horizon, presumably the Pentagon or Mall.  
_Funny, I have no idea what everybody else is doing or feeling… With my training, it's like I've been cut off from the world. It seems so long ago...… We're in a bubble, protected for now from the pain and grief outside… I haven't even been able to talk to my parents; I wonder how they're doing, it'd be nice to see them…_ And with that, she stretched around to her backpack lying farther up the bed – not a problem for one with such a lithe, fit, stunningly pretty physique – and snatched the Caribbean Sea-blue Kimmunicator from her olive drab backpack. As she pulled it out, several pencils, a calculator, her grappler gun, and a few white packages, like plastic-wrapped sausages, spilled out. With a swift glance at her compatriot, she hastily stuffed the last item back into her backpack. Ron hadn't noticed a thing. He was still lying on his back, eyes closed, with a smile on his face, faintly burping periodically. Relieved, Kim slid to the far end of the bed and flicked on the PDA like device. Instantly, Wades face appeared on the small screen.  
"Hey, Kim… what's up?" His features sagged slightly. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no, everything's fine… Is there a way you can contact my family? Like with a video port, or live feed?"

"Sure… I can do it real quick if they are where I think they are…. Hold on a sec…" He rearranged wires and plugs, and after pulling out a neon green one, the screen went lined and fuzzy for about 30 seconds. When it reappeared, the auburn head of her mother swam into view.

Kim's face brightened. "Hi, mom!"

"Hi, honey!" She smiled wearily.

Kim looked past her mothers head into the room behind her… it seemed very familiar, she had been in it before… "Mom, is that a "STEEL TOE VS PAIN KING" poster…Wait, you're in Ron's room?!"

"Joanne's letting me use Ron's bedroom as mine, seeing as he's with you, until we get our house back…. which might take a few weeks. Everything there is too blasted and unstable for us to use, and the FBI and CSI are swarming over there."

"How are you talking to me, then? I didn't think Ron's Windows 98 even _had_ streaming vid."

"There was a yellow Kimmunicator is his closet. The thing beeped until I tuned it on, and Wade told me you wanted a conversation…."

Kim then noticed how Dr. Possible was hunched like she was, as if looking into a small screen. She knew Wade had given Ron a simplified Kimmunicator, but he said he kept leaving it at home. She took a deep breath. "…So, how are things?"

Mrs. Possible sighed deeply and thought for a moment. "Well, your brothers are in a state of shock… not shock per say-I would know- but maybe emotional trauma. They can't believe that it was us there were attacked… they were always expecting it would be "somebody else-"

"…Doesn't everybody?"

"…But they're dealing. Their room wasn't destroyed, and a bunch of those cute little inventions they're always making survived…

"Cute?!? They devised a way to blare the contents of my diary through the halls on the last of high school!" She scowled for a moment before relaxing. "…Is Dad all right?"

"He's fine. Your father's been working overtime at the space center to throw up a missile defense grid around the city… he says that if he gets it up and running, they airport wouldn't have to scramble a fighter intercept."

"And you?"

She smiled wanly, "A little beat up, a few bumps and bruises, but they say us Possibles are real fighters," she grinned. "I've been given a leave from the hospital, but I'm resuming work on the 30th. I'm going to have to, if we want the house fixed." She paused, looking over hundreds of miles of cyberspace to her daughter, worried. "Dear, you've been asking so much about us… How are you and Ron doing?"

"I…" Her voice caught. "I..." Her face broke as a tidal wave of emotions, kept hidden over the traumatic past two days, roared upward, smashing through her defenses. "Oh… _Mom_….!" She launched into a teary account of the hectic rollercoaster of events over the past twenty-four hours, the cold, brutal mission to which she had been assigned, the weapons information shoved down her throat. She wrenched the holster off her waist and dangled it in front of the view screen, "…And now I've been given a gun and I don't know if I like it that much and I just feel so confused!" she finished.

Her mother, taken aback from the outburst pouring out of her normally in-control daughter, eyed the new weapon with an air of resignation and bit her lip. "Well… that is unfortunate… but," she paused, "It wasn't like I didn't expect it -"

"You knew?!"

"Kimmie, I had hoped you would never have to use that sort of thing, but when I looked at the escalating danger of your missions, and your skill with the grappler, I figured it wouldn't be long… This isn't Drakken anymore, hon."

"Wow, thanks for the condolence…"

"Sorry… I hadn't meant to come across like that. You'll do great, dear. You've taken on death squads, revolutionaries, even Shego, and come out fine! We all really miss you… When you get back, I'll throw you a big party, and you can have," she wrinkled her nose with a laugh, "All the marshmallow hotdogs you can eat!"

Kim laughed too, in spite of her self. "I love you, Mom."

"Love you too, Kimmie!"

She kissed the image of her mother on the Kimmunicator screen. "'Night...

"Goodnight…"

The auburn-headed girl slowly turned off the device and lay it on the bedspread beside her. After a silent moment, she suddenly hauled her fist back and slammed it into the mattress with a grief-torn roar before cupping her head in her hands. The transmitter bounced about six inches and slid off the bed.

Ron, who had sat up when he heard Kim sob while talking, had quietly come to stand beside her, looking worried for his friend. "H-hey, KP, is there anything I can do?" He gently touched her shoulder.

Startled, Kim whirled, a fist flying. With excellent muscle control, she managed to stop her knuckles inches from her boyfriend's nose. "Gahhh," she said, wiping her eye with an index finger, "I'm soooo sorry, Ron… You surprised me!"

"That's OK… You nearly did the same thing in Pre-K."

With a small giggle, Kim scooted over. "S-s-so not the drama!"

Ron sat on the bed next to her. "Anything I can do?"

Rufus scuttled out of Ron's knee cargo pocket and gently cradled one of Kim's calloused, fight-strengthened fingers.

Kim sighed. "_Why couldn't I get there in time?? I could have done __**something!**_"

"Huh?"

"Why couldn't I have stopped those airplanes? I just couldn't MOVE fast enough! I could have prevented it! I'm THE Kim Possible! I can do anything!"

"Well, uh, there's that 'anything' clause-"

"Oh, don't give me the wisecracks, Ron…"

Ron put an arm around his friend. "Kim, there wasn't anything you _could_ do… they hit us so fast. How could you have redirected an airplane? There's no way you can catch everything… there's just no way. It's like trying to catch all the Snowman Hank episodes at once… you can't do it. Some get by, and you have to live with it and move on… like the Indonesian tsunami…

She glared. "Don't mention that one… the-round-the-world flight was too slow… If only there was a way to go _faster_!

"But you made a world of good in the clean-up! You saved all the lives you could, Kim! It's like with this new mission… it might be real hard, right now, but you'll do people good down the road!"

Kim was astounded by Ron's new seriousness and condolence. When she looked over at him, it was in a different light. "I guess you're right….. Hmmm, mature works on you!" She put her arms around his neck and leaned into him. Unsure, but presently surprised about this new emotion, he leaned into her and patted her shoulder. And that's the position they stayed in, supporting each other in their grief, until sleep overtook them.

April 24, 2007  
Officer Lodgings  
Suite 81-B  
8:12 PM

* * *

Afghan mountains; East of Kabul  
Bunker #462  
Chamber of the Most Prodigious Great Crusader  
8:15 PM 

Al-Kurkuman nervously closed the soundproof door of the austere room behind him. The Leader liked his silence while meditating, and Al-Kurkuman was never positive about when it was appropriate to enter.

Before him stood an ancient desk, cracked and warped from years of abuse. A fearsome weapon, the slender form of an AK-47, stood beside the desk, within easy reach of its occupant. To the side of the room, an army cot, several prayer rugs, and a camcorder were rudely shoved into a corner. His pupils narrowed slightly at the glare thrown by three naked lightbulbs off the textureless metal-plated walls.

Kurkuman, however, concentrated on the man sitting behind the desk, watching a small, 6-inch black-and-white television before him, a slight smile plying his face. An army jacket covered once-white robes, now light kaki from blowing mountain sand. Contrasting the grime of his clothes was the turban sitting upon his gaunt, hawk-like features, bright and as white as new snow. A long beard, grayed lightly from strain and tension, slithered out of slight beneath the lip of the desk.

Bin Laden glanced up at the soft _snap_ of the catch in the lock. His face broke into a wolfish grin. "So," he said softly, "How did our attacks go? Were our Missiles of Heaven successful against the American Infidel?"

"O Great One, Allah did but half-smile in our direction. The hijackings were went without a hitch, but only two unleashed their full havoc upon their targets. One scored a mighty hit upon the Pentagon; fires still burn as we speak. The other scored on the Freedom Tower, but did not bring it down as we had hoped… the others were shot down by the American military or… missed."

"I must give their military credit – their air force is one of the best in the world… and I had not expected to bring down the Freedom Tower; the Americans have learned too much. But," he smiled, "The Pentagon will not be useable for weeks, and the rest will have inspired panic and desertion of mass transit. They have grounded all air traffic. We were successful!"

"But sir, what about an American counterstrike? You know as well as I do they will want vengeance."

Osama smiled grimly. "After what I have done, they have every right to want my head rammed up a spike for all to see... They are a mighty people, but they are _hopelessly_ sentimental!"

He rotated the TV screen for Kurkuman to see. A news report showed weeping crowds of people holding candlelight vigils in New York, Washington, Chicago, San Francisco, and many other cities. It flashed to scenes of mourning in London, Paris, Berlin, and Moscow. Many gathered had signs proclaiming a want for world peace, an end to terror, and the message to "Stand Strong!"

"Good opportunities for a bomb," muttered Kurkuman, always-practical mind whizzing.

"You see, when they should be arming up, calling for blood, they have pity! They _weep!_" He flicked the channel, "Even their President cries!"

The change interrupted a playback of President Bush's condolence speech the previous night, dubbed in Arabic.

::"…America, we have been hit again. For the second time, we must stand together; we must stand strong. Again, we must show that we are better than these barbaric cowards…" A slight tear ran down his cheek. "…But we must not hate the Muslim world. Theirs is a peaceful religion…"::

"Hmmm, the President Bush is not one to be trifled with, even though his country hates him," murmured Kurkuman.

"Have there been any negative repercussions from our jihad?"

"Well, sir, there was the expected skyrocket in their leaders popularity," he jerked his thumb at the television image, "But not as much as last time. A faction is dissatisfied, however. They say that after 9/11 and London, Bush should have done something to prevent the attacks."

"Good, good… the seeds of dissent are planted. Governments that allow the public too much free mind always meet sticky ends…"

"Sir, when could we expect a counter-strike? A Special Ops group? And have you dealt with that infidel American vigilante, the Kim Possible?"

"That little red-haired brat? I've heard of her… her family was on the list of places to bomb. If Allah is willing, she died in the attack. If he is not, the airplane killed her family. Somebody had to have been in the house… she's probably grieving for them… As for a counter-attack, the Americans are busy licking their wounds. Besides, they do not even know where we are-"

"But what was the speck in the sky one of our guards saw?"

"We fired at it, and it couldn't have been American It didn't fire back! Probably a bird…"

"If it was American, do you think we should move?"

"It took me a long time to find this fortress. The Soviets were kind enough to build it during their occupation here, but left before they could move in. They even had the electricity installed, and they left! I am not moving after discovering such a valuable bunker. Like I said before, they do not know where we are. It will take a while before they can get a Special-Ops team off the ground. Before then, my forces sent to Iraq to stir up trouble in coordination with the American attack will have returned, bringing me to full strength. And then," his eyes glowed, "the rocket casings will arrive from North Korea and a few weeks later, with my signature, and mine alone, the enriched uranium yellowcake will arrive from Iran, and we will have a weapon the United States will TRULY fear!"

He broke into an evil cackle of laughter, Al-Kurkuman joining in. "Yes," he said, wiping a tear of horrible mirth from the corner of his eye, "We cannot expect the Americans on our doorstep for another couple weeks…"

Afghan mountains; East of Kabul  
Bunker #462  
Chamber of the Most Prodigious Great Crusader  
8:27 PM 

* * *

April 24, 2007  
Officer Lodgings  
3rd Floor  
Corridor A  
8:34 PM

Straightening up from the water fountain and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, General Simms padded up the darkened, silent hallway. Passing through dim yellow-orange pools cast by security lights and listening to the heavy breathing and occasional rasping snore behind the doors her passed, Simms yawned. He had had a very busy day. First training the teens how to use firearms, and then after they were in their rooms, having emergency meetings with other generals. Air traffic of non-government business had been grounded, and mass transits were packed with rifle-carrying guards and bomb dogs. The public was… coping. Showing high nervous tension – hardware stores were swamped with orders for duct tape and plastic sheeting – but coping nonetheless.

His musings were so absorbed that he was surprised at finding the end of the hall in front of him. He looked to his left. The door to Kim and Ron's room was ajar, and Simms peeked in, nearly whacking his head on the molding as he drew it back out quickly. _Crud,_ he thought,_ They're laying on a bed…_ He set his jaw, took a deep breath and looked back in, sighing with relief as he did so. _Whew. They were just sleeping… It looks as if they were comforting each other and just toppled backward as they went to sleep… Maybe I'm being over-protective. Maybe I jump to conclusions too quickly._ He looked closer and grinned. _Ron's smiling, though. Lucky kid, to have a good friend like that…_ He rotated the doorknob before closing the door, as to prevent the noise of the locking tumblers from awaking them. He turned to his suite. Running his access card through the electronic lock, he barged through the doorframe and strode over to the telephone, not bothering to turn on the light. Grabbing the receiver and dialing in the number with a gentle _thrum_ – he loved vintage World War II rotary phones – he waited for the line to pick up, the ring loud in his ears after the solitude.

"Hello?" A cool female voice in clipped tones came in after the fifth ring.

"Hi, B. They're ready for duty… I think they will be more than able to hold their own. Show up with everybody else tomorrow."

"Riiight…I'll be there." A pause. "Well, goodnight."

"Goodnight."

The line went dead with a click. Simms ended the transmission by putting the club in its cradle. He tapped his head for a moment, recalling the number, before picking up the phone and dialing again.

"Hello?" came the reply, this time in a gruff, military-like tone.

"Your country is in need… we need your help. You know our teens well. Can you remember your elitist skills?"

A long silence at the other end of the line. "Yeeesss… I do. I keep in top condition if ever duty calls… that's what the rugby's for…" He paused again. "But how am I going to get there? Even if I started driving now, it'd take me all night to get to you -"

"You didn't think I wouldn't have thought that out? A government Learjet – you'll know it by the presidential seal on its flanks- is already on its way. It'll be in your area in about an hour. You'll be shaking my hand by ten."

"An hour?? I can't pack by then!"

"Sir, if my memories serve, you packed and airdropped an entire battalion's gear to the Ho-Chi-Mien Trail in an hour. I would think you could pack for yourself in the same amount of time."

"Yessir… Will do, sir."

"See that you do." He hung up, and then dialed in a final number.

A nasally female voice answered. "Presidential Communications Service, how may I help yooou?"

"Hi. I need a line to the President, please."

"Pass code?"

Simms sighed. "Uhhh, four-two-oh, one-nine-nine-oh, dash, seven-seven-seven, dash, T-e-x-a-n, errrr, C-o-w-b-o-y"

"Correct."

Hold music piped through the speaker for about a minute and Simms tapped his foot impatiently. Suddenly the line clicked on and a Texas drawl blasted through.

"Eh, who in a-tarnation is this?"

"Gen. Simms, sir. I have good news-"

"Oh Gawd, not another Gieco commercial!"

"No, no, this is about the mission… As soon as Kim and Ron meet their fellow team members tomorrow," he smiled, teeth catching a bar of moonlight, making them shine with an iridescence, his heavy glasses flashing, "…We're ready to roll!"

April 24, 2007  
Officer Lodgings  
Room 81-A  
8:42 PM

To be continued…


	7. Strategizing

**7. Strategizing**

April 25, 2007  
Officer Lodgings  
Suite 81-B  
7:48 AM

A warm, bright beam of newly minted sunlight shot between Kim's half-closed eyelids, blinding her. She rolled over on the warm cotton sheets, trying to block out the light with the cup of her hand. Patiently, persistently, the sunlight poked at her until she sat up groggily, wiping sleep out of her eyes.

It was morning. Solid columns of light slanted in from the windows, making the outline of the furniture glow and brass sparkle. The room was quiet, filled only with small morning sounds, the faint, gentle ticking of a desk clock, and Ron's rhythmic snoring. Kim looked over at him. They were both at the far end of the bed, as if they had fallen and slept were they had sat. He was curled on his side facing away from her, head resting on his hands, still in deep slumber. Rufus was resting on top of him, rising and falling several inches as Ron breathed. Kim smiled at the humorous scene. Standing, stretching deeply, and shaking her tousled auburn mane out of her face, she gazed out the window into the morning glare. A Hummve rumbled slowly by, and the large, oily smudge on the horizon she had seen the previous evening had vanished._ Must've gotten the fire out overnight_, she thought as she trundled to the shower, yawning.

After her refreshing wash, her brain awake and running, she changed into her mission outfit for the meeting with her squad later. Ron, even after the shаttering sound of the running showerhead, stayed asleep. Kim slipped on her ammunition belt and holster, the weight of the gun odd and unusual at her side, and began her daily warm-up exercises. She did a series of athletic stretches. The added weight was foreign and threw her balance off for a few moments, but with "Kim-like" speed, she adjusted and was soon sending spinning kicks and staggering punches biting at the still air. Simms opened the door and walked in as she culminated her attacks by jumping into the air, flipping once, landing low on one foot and spinning with her other in a circle, forming a living scythe which would have felled any attacker had they been in range.

"Oo-rah. Very good, Ms. Possible," he said, clapping softly.

Kim looked up through a strand of sweat-soaked hair, unaware she had had an audience, and blushed faintly. "Oh, hi, Gen. Simms."

"Sorry to startle you," said the commander. He looked over at Ron, who was still snoozing. "How 'bout getting this one up?" He grinned.

"How do you suppose I get him awake? Should I kick him, or…" she broke off, grinning mischievously. She knelt softly beside Ron and slowly, gently kissed him on the lips. He smiled warmly, enjoying the sensation, and opened his eyes. Finding Kim's eyes about an inch from his own, he fell backward, and upon finding Simms in the room, let out a stifled yell.

"You know, Ron," he said, eyebrows disappearing into his forehead, trying not to laugh and losing, "I was going to simply throw you roughly off the bed, but Kim… had other ideas," he finished with a wink. "Now, go get washed and dressed, and then we'll go meet your teammates."

Ron threw a dirty look at Simms, glanced over at Kim, half-smiled, and staggered to the bathroom.

Kim was still feeling as if an electric charge was coursing through her, and barely came to in time to hear Simms talking. "…So I'll drive us to the auditorium to meet everybody, we'll plan our tactics, and if we get done in time, we can be on a plane to Kabul this evening."

Ron came out of washroom in his mission outfit, combing his hair. After Ron pocketed Rufus and Kim grabbed her bags, they walked out and Simms shut and locked the door. Striding down the same hallway and using the same elevator, they arrived in the lobby. It was empty except for the receptionist. A large American flag hung from the ceiling, ruffling slightly from indoor air currents. He ushered the teens into the Hummer and edged onto the main road, flashing his security pass to the guard on the way out of the parking lot. The mood in the truck was different from the previous evening. The air slapping past the windshield had a fresh, clean feel to it. Bright sunlight beamed through the windows. A bird twittered and skimmed across the spring firmament, happy to be alive. Kim rolled down the window, letting the slipstream play with her red hair. She noticed a large yellow triangle bordered in florescent orange plastered to the outside of her door, which she hadn't seen the previous day.

"General Simms," she called over the noise of the wind, "What's this triangle thingy?"

"Oh," he replied, "That marks this vehicle for top security. It means it has people critical to the welfare of the Union inside. You see that jet?" He pointed backwards out the window, "That's our fighter escort. He protects us from possible air or ground threats."

Kim craned her neck backwards and upwards. High above them hung an F-18, as if tethered like a kite. _Whoa! We are we REALLY that important?? Which makes it all the worse if we fail..._ She shuddered.

The Hummve ground to a halt outside of a tall, imposing building edged with spherical boxwoods. A wooden sign nestled comfortably in the shrubbery proclaimed "Auditorium." Simms led the trio through a bank of large doors into a windowed narthex.

"Okay, the members are in there," he said, pointing to more doors directly across from the ones they had just entered, "I'll tell them you've arrived. Wait here…" He turned sharply on his heel and vanished into the other room. Ron threw a nervous glance at Kim, who returned it with faint smile. Simms reappeared in about a minute and silently gestured them to enter.

From the low narthex, they emerged into a high, spacious room. Wooden reverberation dampers ran along the walls and flags of various branches of service dangled from the ceiling. The stage was located at the far end of the room behind a phalanx of folding blue chairs. The center of the room was free of chairs, and a column of about ten people ran perpendicular of the stage and to their left. Upon seeing them enter the room, someone in the line (probably Simms), bawled, "Atteennnn-tion!" and the line snapped into a salute with a commendable stamp and crash of boots, making the flags above quiver. Some of the rigidly-standing individuals looked oddly familiar…

Broadsided from their pompous greeting, Kim and Ron stood for a moment until Simms hurried from behind the line and greeted them. "Kim, Ron, welcome. Sorry for the noise, we like to make a good first impression," he said ushering them forward to the first person.

He was about 30 something, with combed light brown hair and small, round spectacles. The man looked lean and fit under his Army pants and light gray shirt.

"Name?" asked the General.

Keeping his eyes fixed forward and back ramrod straight, he bellowed as if addressing a hard-bit drill sergeant, "Benjamin Watts, Sir! Tactical fire specialist, SIR!" 

Kim's ears rang.

"_Sir, what is your major malfunction?!_" Simms roared back,"_Can't you see whom you are addressing? They are not military personnel!!"_

Benjamin reddened, dropped his eyes and smiled, sticking out a hand. "Sorry, I'm so used to the Army's ways. Call me Ben." 

Kim shook his hand. "I'm Kim, and this is my friend Ron."

"Glad to meet you. I'm an expert in sniping and wilderness survival. I can take out the head on a nickel at 300 yards."

Simms moved down the line to the next two men. They looked identical with their black hair in buzz cuts and matching olive drab tee shirts. Stocky, broad-shouldered, and with faces like chiseled stone, it seemed they could stop a locomotive if they wished.

"Oliver and Matt Whithers," introduced Simms, "Fraternal twins. Experts in handling heavy weaponry and anti-tank defenses. Graduated from VMI with high honors."

"Pleased to meet you," they said in a conversational tone, taking a hint from Ben.

"Same," said Kim.

"Happy to have you on board," the twins said, touching a finger to their forelocks.

The next three men were grouped together. Their stocky, muscular frames looked _very_ familiar… Kim knew she had seen that black shirt, gray pants, tan belts, and black skullcaps before.

"This," intoned Simms, "Is part of a team of Special-Ops, Misters Johnson, Wilson, and Michaels." The two taller Caucasians avoided Kim's piercing gaze and scuffed their feet.

"Charmed," she said, with a distinct coolness to her voice. Ron, clearly not forgetting their unwillingness to come to his aid, glared.

"Errr, sorry about the whole payment business, Ms. Possible," the shorter, more compact Michaels muttered, offering a light brown hand. "Willing to, uh, forgive and forget?"

"In the matter of national security, I will." Kim shook his hand.

The next person gave her such a shock she took a step back. A tall, fit female in a blue-hued jumpsuit and a patch over her right eye grinned. "Hello, Kimberly. We meet again."

_"Dr. Director?!"_

"I was called in by General Simms here to provide assistance on your mission once it became clear your training was successful."

"Well," said Simms, "I'm glad to know you and Elizabeth Director can work well together."

The Global Justice leader wrung Kim's hand. Hand wincing from her iron grip, she moved down the line.

Ron yelped at the next figure.

"Ron," explained Simms, "this is Lieutenant Steven Barkin."

Kim gasped at the large-jawed man before her. "Mr. Barkin, what are you doing here?!"

"I was also called up by Simms last night," he said in his characteristic growl. "In Vietnam, I wasn't really your standard grunt as I had led you to believe. I was really part of a special reconnaissance team designed to report the actions of the Viet-Cong, codenamed SOG. After the war, I kept up my training and stamina for the heck of it-"

"I can _still_ taste my spleen," muttered Ron under his breath.

"-And it looks like it paid off." His mood suddenly changed and he scowled fiercely at Kim and Ron. "If I get killed on this mission, I'll make sure – and I don't care how, I'll haunt your college if necessary – you both get three months of detention!"

Ron blanched. "You… wouldn't!"

"Oh, yes," he said, grinning evilly.

"Moving on," said Simms quickly and advancing to the last man in line.

He was tall and looked younger than the other teammate. Kim judged him to be in his mid-20's. He had wavy blond hair and a slightly pointed face. He wore olive pants and a gray shirt that read "U.S. Air Force." Taking off aviator sunglasses to gaze at Kim, he revealed clear, light blue eyes.

"This," said Simms, "is Jonathan Leigh, age 24. He is an aerospace engineer in the experimental department (you should see some of the prototypes he comes up with!), and is a demolitions expert. He has the interesting ability look at a structure for about a minute, and then tell you exactly what the weak points are and where to put the charges. He was a big help to us in Iraq when we had to blow some key bridges into Baghdad."

Jonathan smiled. "In my free time, I'm a recreational pilot of a Beechcraft Musketeer. I guess that explains the aviators." He laughed, waved the glasses around. "Glad to meet your acquaintances, Ms. Possible and Mr. Stoppable."

Kim grinned back and shook his hand sincerely. "Same to you, Mr. Leigh." 

"And finally," said Simms, performing an about-face, falling into line beside Jonathan and saluting, "Theodore Simms, US Army General of the Fourth Star. Class of '84 from West Point. Made commander of Investigational Prototypes in the Nevada Sector in '99."

"Haha, General, we don't need an introduction. I -" the ringtone of the Kimmunicator cut her short. She snatched it from her cargo's thigh pocket. Never again could she leisurely take a call. "What's the sitch, Wade?"

"I've got the maps of the combat zone compiled and formulated, and implemented the proper algorithms for the viewing format you want," he replied.

"No idea what you just said Wade, but thanks! You rock in bass!"

The African-American boy reclined in his swivel chair and smiled. "I do what I can."

Kim turned to the group at large, "I'm gonna need a large, flat, white surface…. Do you guys have a big whiteboard or something?"

Ben's face lit up. "I think I know of just the thing." He jogged to the far end of the auditorium and came squeaking back with a large basined table sheathed in off-white plastic. The castors protested as he brought it to a halt. "I think this used to be used to show battle maneuvers, but now we use it for salad bars when the NCOMs come over for a social."

Kim examined it. The bottom of the table was about six inches lower than its sides, and was big enough for all to gather around. "This is… _perfect_." She waved everyone to her and turned back to Wade. "We found a viewing place."

"Good. Place me on the edge of the table with the holographic projector- that's the big red lens on top- pointing inward." Kim did so and stepped back. After the little screen showed about 30 seconds of frantic activity, the projector engaged and a holographic, 3D globe flickered into life about a foot from the table. The shimmering pale blue image threw their faces into mild relief. Several agents raised their eyebrows in appreciation. 

A miniscule red square appeared in the upper left corner of Afghanistan, and enlarged to swathe the country in correspondence to the dragging movement of Wade's mouse. Keyboard commands clicked, and they were looking at the country of Afghanistan alone.

This time Wade highlighted the Paropa Misus mountain range, and suddenly they were swooping and skimming over jagged crags at helicopter height. The map had flattened into a 3-dimentional topography, filling the volume of the basin. Kim heard several low, awed whistles, and Oliver Whithers leaned toward her and whispered in her ear, "This kid ever seen _Star Wars_?"

"About 50 times," she said with a grin. "He helped Lucas was the special effects for Episodes I-III... He never wanted to be in the credits for his own reasons-" The virtual flight was slowing, "-But shhhh!" 

The map had glided to a halt overlooking a curious U-shaped valley. They were positioned at the top of the right arm looking in. All sides were sheer cliff except for a small access road winding its way out of sight through the upper left arm.

"This," Wade explained, "was a disused bunker site constructed by the Soviets during their occupation in the 1980's. They withdrew before they could establish a dwelling in it."

"Them Ruskies got themselves a taste of Viet-nam," said Simms in a tone of vindictive pleasure.

"Anyway, I… um, hacked, a few infrared satellites to get thermal signatures of humans," Wade said. "The red dots-" and a smattering of them popped into the image along the access road- "are Al-Queda fighters. I got some geo-imaging software that shows land mines as yellow dots, and as you can see the road is plastered with them. Afghanistan is one of the most heavily-mined countries in the world."

"So that rules out the road for any kind of entrance," said Kim, concentrating on the picture and cupping her chin in her palm.

"Exactly. The only stealthy way in would be over the rim-"

"Bush has said something about a helicopter."

"Correct. Our plan is to come in from behind with the chopper and land out of sight behind the berm running around the edge. Your forces, indicated in purple-" a purple dot appeared in the terrain- "Would take out any opposition from the heights, and then rappel down to the floor." The amethyst dot became a line running down the side of the cliff and into the valley below. "There is a large door in the bottom of the U. I've zoomed in on it, and several large charges of carefully placed C4 _should_ blow it right off the hinges."

"Are you getting this, Jonathan?" barked Simms.

"Yessir," he muttered, scribbling notes.

"Now, for the fortress itself," said Wade, and the entire top of the valley lifted off to expose a network of passages and chambers. The cutaway showed two floors. Immediately behind the door was a huge room with a high, cavernous cathedral ceiling. Doors and passages ran into the mountain in the rear of the room. Along the right side ran a raised steel platform giving access to the upper floor. The only way to get onto the platform was a small metal stairway.

Simms eyes widened. "Wade, where did you _get_ this information?!"

The boy threw a nervous glance at the commanding officer. "Ummm, I 'commandeered' one of the government's GPS satellites and installed a geo-textural imaging software of my own design, aaaannnd," he glanced at Simms again, "I hacked the Gitmo Bay interrogation files for schematics prisoners had leaked."

"Is there **nothing** we can keep confidential from you anymore?"

"In all truthfulness, sir, not really, sir."

The general sighed and rolled his eyes. "Very well, proceed."

The purple line contined through the door and stopped in the huge entrance room. "Well, if the main task force is involved in a firefight in the great hall, Kim here-" a light green line branched from the mauve one- "See, the line matches your eyes, will continue up this ladder," indicating the platform with a flashing red marker, "and into the upper chambers." The light green line snaked and twisted its way through the labyrinth of passages, "To where I hypothesize bin Laden's quarters are," and the specific chamber flashed yellow.

There was a long silence as everyone studied and analyzed the route.

Ron broke the quiet. "Why is Kim going on alone?" he said as his brow furrowed, a note of concern in his voice.

"Because," said Kim with a voice of slight apprehension, "one person is less spotted than many. I can get around many of the guards because I'm quiet… besides," she continued, her voice and expression hardening, "that nut tried to kill my family and destroyed my home. This…... is _personal._"

"And if you meet anyone?"

"Well, then, I guess that's what this," she said, tapping her holster, "is for."

There was a long pause before Simms rubbed his hands together and said, "Well, any questions? Either everyone here has worked with our teen heroes before and can adapt with them almost reflexively," he nodded to Dr. Director, the commando squad, and Mr. Barkin," or they are good enough to mesh rather quickly. Gunfire does that…." 

Ron raised his hand as if in school. "Yeah, uh, what happens after we're done?"

Simms smiled grimly. "The 101st is sending over an air strike when we regain radio contact."

"So, if everything goes down the crapper," he said brightly, "We'll still have an afterburner?"

"No, no. That air strike is designed to obliterate the mountain… we are the scalpel, they are the mop and broom."

"Oh…"

A look of sudden realization crossed Simms face, and he turned to Kim with his brow creased. "Uh, Kim, I just remembered something. If you meet Osama, and need to talk to him, will you have a language barrier problem?"

Kim smiled broadly and tapped her forehead. "No worries, General, I've got it all up here."

"You've taken a comprehensive speech course in Arabic??"

"What? No, no! Wade managed to persuade my mom to fuse a microchip containing a translating program to my cerebellum. She was the chief surgeon in the operation.  
The computer allows me to instantly read, understand, and speak any language in the world that's loaded in Wade's database. If a new language somehow comes up, he can just download it to the chip."

"Really?! _Incredible..._"

"Yeah, Wade is one neat kid. He's making plans to make copies of the chips and sell them to the military and overseas tourism to put in hand-held translators…." She paused for a moment. "My chip really saves time on missions now that I don't have to call in favors for a translator, and lessens the amount of people targeted for 'helping the American.' The only bad part now," she said and her face fell, "is that I can't take any Foreign Language class because I have a built-in advantage."

"Well, I guess that's one less SAT you have to take... Any more questions?" 

Silence.

"Does everyone have the plan memorized?" 

Nods of ascent.

"Good… let's ROLL!"

Kim joined in with the loud, hoarse yell of camaraderie and everyone charged out the door.

Kim, Ron, and Simms tumbled back into the camouflaged vehicle, and about 10 minutes later, three other Hummvees lined up behind them.

Simms grabbed for the flat black of the worn mike on the dashboard CB radio. "Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, do we have our ducks in a row?"

::'Tis Alpha, Rodger that!::

::This is Bravo vehicle, standing by!::

::Charlie reporting in; all are here! We are ready to swim, Ducky!::  
Before that transmission went dead, loud guffaws were heard in the background.

Simms ignored it. "_Rawhide! Let's MOVE this bronco!_"

With diesel engines snorting and exhaust flaps clanging, the convoy pulled out onto the main road and turned for the airstrip.

April 25, 2007  
Andrews Air Force Base  
10:56 AM

To be continued... 


	8. Time Flies

**8. Time Flies **  
_They're Hyped_

April 25, 2007  
Andrews Air Force Base  
11:00 AM

Kim leaned forward between the large, chunky captain's chairs in the front of the HUMMWV. "Bronco? Rawhide? What's with the codenames, sir?"

"See, Kim, we're on CB radio," said Simms, patting the drab square box. "If by a slight, slight chance someone had tuned to the right channel, they could hear our conversation. We wouldn't want to say, 'Special Ops team, are you ready for the mission?' because someone might hear. Therefore, we use names like Alpha or Charlie to disguise the nature of the speakers. 'Rawhide' means 'all clear,' and 'Move this bronco' is the signal to continue to the airport... Plus, it makes it a whole lot _cooler_," he added with a boyish grin.

"Ahhh, I gotcha!"

They drove through about a half an hour of buffer ground. The grass had begun as thick, bushy sprigs like a meadow, but now it had flattened to an almost unnatural fairway height. The grass stretched in all directions except straight ahead, surrounding them in a perfect hemisphere of lush green. The fresh, pungent smell of mowed lawn was strong in Kim's nostrils.

Leigh's voice crackled over the radio. :: ...The reason they keep it so short is so planes have a place to land if they miss… Just your random aeronautic trivia for the day!::

Slowly, the dominating forms of the dark gray aircraft hangers loomed in front of them. The solitude, before only accompanied by the sound of the combat vehicles, was replaced by the high scream of revving airliners. The hangers stretched on either side with a straightedge road running beside them. At either end, the runway poked out from behind their masses. The control tower stood like a sentinel keeping the peace.

Their road was situated in the middle of the hanger complex. Posted above each mammoth entrance door was a titanic yellow number in military stencil. Numbers 14, 13, and 12 descended to their left, and 15, 16, and 17 went right. The procession took the starboard route. Up close, the scale of the complex was staggering. It took roughly three minutes to pass one hanger, and that dimension was only widthwise. The numbers scrawled by until the convoy's brakes engaged with a howl at the last hanger, Number 26.

They filed though a normal sized door to the right of the airplane entry, tiny compared to the garage door. The door opened into a small receptionist's office, vacant for the moment. Because there was no one to report to, the group went right though into another room. Each door was immediately opposite the other, and Kim mused that her grappler could travel from one end of the building to the other without hitting an obstruction. This room gleamed of white tiled walls. An accenting row of red tiles ran halfway up the wall. A bank of crimson full-length lockers lined the right wall, and half a dozen changing stalls ran to their left. Leigh pulled several chromate green flight suits from the lockers and handed them to Kim, Ron, and each of the team members in turn. 

Stepping into one of the stalls, the suit reminded Kim of the one she had worn flying with Col. Dimitri before her impressment into Home Economics. She emerged a few minutes later with her mission clothes stuffed into her backpack, belt draped over one arm, and an expression of slight revulsion.  
_Whoever designed these things is really, REALLY in style denial!_

Upon seeing her, Simms smiled. "I know the regulation wear is rather unflattering, but you seem to pull the look off!"

Kim grimaced. "At least _one_ person things so!"

Joined several minutes later by the rest of the besuited squad, they walked into another room containing a chute and a yellow sign above it stating in crisp black letters, Please Place all Baggage and Weapons into Ramp for Transport to Aircraft. Thank You.

Peering down the slot, Kim could see it terminated into a large, wheeled canvas bin like the ones used in civilian airports to transport items to a waiting plane. Sure enough, she noticed a small trailer hitch at one end of the container. The chute swallowed her dark green backpack and belt, followed a second later by a _whump…. clud!_ The rest of the team followed her lead, and the container voiced variously-pitched thuds depending on the density of an item.

After depositing their belongings, Simms waved at them to halt. He stopped in front of a door immediately in line of the one they had entered and placed a hand upon a small scanner to the right of the doorknob. This was apparently a security and a confirmation measure, because after Dr. Director and Jonathan had had their palms scanned, the door slid smoothly open with a whoosh in a small puff of compressed air.

Kim entered into a long, low, dimly lit corridor. The hallway stretched in front of her for about two hundred yards were it terminated in a large door. A crevice of sunlight ran around the edges and the venting strip at the bottom, graphically illustrating the 'light at the end of the tunnel.' Johnson, Wilson, and Michaels strode purposely down the hall, and their boots reverberated loudly off a concrete floor in the confined space.

Ron drew beside Kim and muttered in her ear, "This reminds me of the football tunnel at Middleton High!"

Kim considered her surroundings for a moment. "Ya'know, it really does!"

During the walk, Kim and Ron were jostled up to the front of the group and were now standing with Simms. They reached the end of the corridor and stood by the windowless push-handle door. Up close, they could see it had a computerized lock. Simms swiped his identity card through a slot and it whirred, clicked, and with a heavy bang, unlocked. The general paused with his hand on the push bar and turned to the teens. The light from behind the door illuminated the right side of his face, leaving the other in blackness. The result was rather creepy.

"You know what I said about the government having alien technology, flying saucers, yadda, yadda, yadda?" he said solemnly.

"Yes," said Kim and Ron slowly, unsure and now slightly apprehensive of what was behind that door.

"Well, _**this**_" he said, quickly flinging open the door into the blazing sunlight, "is categorized under _yadda, yadda, yadda._"

Kim, blinking away the blinding light and holding an arm over her eyes against the glare, felt her jaw hit the deck for the second time in two days.

Before her on the tarmac, a huge, sleek, black airplane glistened in the sun. Its shape was reminiscent of a gigantic arrowhead with landing gear. The streamlined nose curved seamlessly into a rounded fuselage, which then flowed into a curving delta wing. The top of the ship was sheared perfectly flat. Two large vertical stabilizers protruded from the aft section and angled outward like an F-22's. Halfway down the underside of the body a huge air scoop bulged downward, stretching the width of the ship. The dip continued to the rear of the plane and ended in a vectored nozzle. A long, telescoping metal ramp extended from a thick hatch swinging open from the side of the airplane, and orange-robed technicians were scurrying up and down it while consulting clipboards and conferring to walkie-talkies. Kim estimated the body was at least 150 feet long, and the wingspan (and the entire machine seemed to be wing) had to be about 100. Looking along the wing, she noticed that the tips housed large-caliber rocket pods.

Dr. Director, Ben, and Gen. Simms had obviously has seen things like this before, and with no more than a raised eyebrow went to unload the cargo bin, now pulled by a small orange tractor, which had sidled under the near wing.

Jonathan, on the other hand, had noticed Kim's Ron's, Mr. Barkin's, and the commando squad's stunned looks and postures of disbelief, and was now waving them over enthusiastically to the front landing strut, a broad grin on his face. They wandered over to him, still gazing about in wonderment. At the bow, the hull of the plane soared fifteen feet above their heads.

"This baby," he said as they gathered around, "Is the HVST, or _High Velocity Special Transport_. Her true name however, is the _Peregrine Falcon_, after the fastest bird in the sky. She cruises at Mach 10, and has a top speed of Mach 11. I designed her myself." He proudly patted the strut oleo as the jockey pats his favorite prize-winning steed.

Ron snorted. "Only 10? That's not that fast!"

Dr. Director, walking up the ramp with an olive drab sack thrown over her shoulder, yelled down to him in mock insult, "Ronald, you idiot, _one_ Mach is 761 miles an hour - the speed of sound!"

Ron blanched under his freckles and made a strangled noise. "Ahhhhhh…"

Kim quickly did the mental math and gasped. "That's... That's... that's 7,614 miles an hour! Are you sure this thing is safe?!"

"Perfectly. It's gotten a good workout with the ambassador to China, especially," he added, his face darkening, "After the Yomienako Pact."

The group at large scowled and uttered a few low oaths.

Kim brought the subject back to the incredible jet. "But… how does it go so _fast?_" 

Jonathan pointed. Kim's eyes followed his finger to the large air scoop as he began explaining again. "This babe's a Scramjet. Fastest planes in the world. At it's heart, it's nothing more than a wing, a Delaval nozzle, and an inkjet printer."

"A what and a _what?!_"

"A Delaval nozzle… is like, well," he scratched his head, trying to simplify the complex aerodynamics. "It's like two funnels taped together. There's two wide ends and a skinny neck. Inflowing air comes in one nozzle, and as you know, when a fluid is forced into a smaller space, it speeds up. As it exits the aft nozzle, the fluid is moving at a much higher speed than it entered. If it was going supersonic (Mach 1+), it's going hypersonic (Mach 7+) as it leaves. When a fluid speeds up and looses volume, it also heats up. _Really_ heats up. At a high enough speed, the air in the neck just about explodes, producing a huge amount of thrust. That's where the inkjet comes in. It transforms the fuel –we use a hydrogen isotope for its high thrust ratio- into very, very tiny droplets that almost instantly vaporize. Add that that hydrogen fuel to extremely high heat, and boooom!" He grinned.

Kim still had questions smashing around her head. "I thought that we were just beginning to explore hypersonic tech! That little scramjet in 2004 was only twelve feet long!"

"Weeeel," said Simms, joining the congregation, "That was one of our early test versions we had lent to NASA. We occasionally give them things to promote so the public thinks they're doing something and keep sending tax money. The people wouldn't like it if all the new space technologies were coming out of the military. So we let NASA 'develop' our stuff so people will think everything is a civilian technology. It's what we call in the business a FGH-backslash-triple stroke-39 scenario."

Beside her, Ron rolled his eyes and let out a huff of frustration.

"So NASA has come out with _nothing?!_" said Kim

"Not quite true. They put Neil on the moon, and they developed some pretty kick-**a**ss mattresses." said Simms, smiling warmly at the recollection of comfort.

Ron crossed his arms. "Okay, so this blows anything I've ever seen out of the water. How in the _hell_ did you keep this under wraps?!"

"Remember how I said we couldn't keep **almost** anything under cover from Wade anymore?" said Simms.

The teens nodded.

"Well," he said, gesturing to the black ship drinking in the sunlight above them, "This was one of those projects that got through. Skunkworks was working overtime to get it finished. They kept everything they could on paper – no electronic documents to hack!"

Somewhere, Kim could sense Wade was smacking his forehead.

"But surly," she said, "there would have been something that pointed to research. You can't go flying an airplane like this without generating some sort of buzz!

"Kim, remember that experimental aircraft your father developed; the one you used to rescue the ISS from – what was it? – a monkey man?" asked Jonathan with a significant look.

"_You mean that was...?!_"

"It was a, shall I say... beta version of the craft you are standing under now," he said slowly. "Dr. Possible helped me with the aerodynamics. He designed the engine. We weren't trying to break any speed records like the _Falcon_ can – barely went over Mach 6 – we were trying out a new engine type for low-space orbit."

Ben appeared in their midst. He turned and saluted to Simms and Jonathan. "Luggage and weapons stowed, sir."

"Good, good," said Jonathan. He turned to Kim and Ron and gestured outside the group toward the hanger. "Guys, I'd like you to meet our pilots for this flight, Michael Corner and Scott Bradey."

The two men striding toward them from behind the loom of the hanger building wore rich navy flight suits. Their official black leather boots and silver flight helmets tucked under their right arms gleamed in the sun. They had a tangible air of command and expertise surrounding them, backed up by captain's insignia on the left shoulder. On their right shoulders, just beneath the patch of the American flag, was a depiction of a falcon diving for a kill.

"Kim, Ron," said Jonathan, directing their attention to the nearest figure, "This is Michael."

The man in question was tall and lithe, with a strong face and jaw bordered by a short auburn beard and sideburns. Michael saluted, and upon recognizing whom he had greeted, did the smallest of double takes. "Happy to meet you. Mr. Stoppable and Ms. Possible," he said in a soft, relaxed voice containing a trace of northwestern accent. The beard and his soft dialect gave the impression he was from around Montana. "I've heard of your father's work… Quite remarkable. I've also heard his daughter inherited quite a bit of those same smarts." He smiled gently.

"Err, th-thanks," said Kim, grinning and faintly blushing.

"...And this," said Jonathan, turning to the second man after the introduction was done, "Is our co-pilot, Scott."

He had wavy, jet black hair and a smooth, sharp face. His nose was strong, and his eyes had the same color and intensity as chipped granite.

_Give him a leather bomber jacket,_ thought Kim, _and he'd have come off a B-17._

"Hello, Ms. Possible, Mr. Stoppable," he said in a clipped Northern accent as he nodded politely to Kim and Ron in turn.

A ground technician with "Supervisor" ramped across his hard hat tapped Michael on the forearm. "The plane is fueled, checked out, and ready to fly, sir."

"Thank you, Phillips." He smiled warmly at the group and gestured grandiosely to the door in the Scramjet's side. "Ready to go aboard?"

Simms, Jonathan, Ben, and Dr. Director led the way clanking up the perforated aluminum boarding ramp, the twins and the commando squad after them, and Ron and Kim followed before the pilots.

"'Ware the door," called Scott from behind Kim, "It's kinda –"

He was cut off by a muffled _thud,_ and Ron staggered backward a step, rubbing his forehead profusely. 

The raven-haired man winced. "– low ."

As Kim passed though the thick, heavy doorway, she noticed it, oddly, had no door handle. Ducking under the lip of the access portal, she straightened up in the main cabin. The single room filled the entire middle area of the ship. To the front, a bulkhead cut most of the flight deck from view. The space had a utilitarian air about it. Only a thin layer of cheesy carpet insulation covered the concave walls and ceiling. The floor, made up of some metal alloy, was bare, and the boots of the occupants reverberated off it. Lighting came from a strip of small square lights running amidships. Kim would not have been surprised if they had come off a school bus. The only furnishing in the space was a rectangle of fifteen seats before her, arranged in a three by five grid. Kim touched one of them.

It was the softest, most comfortable material she had ever felt. The poufs provided by the court during her diplomatic visits to Saudi Arabia were nothing to this. A very soft, cushy material, like velvet, had been placed over what felt like pads of gel, which was then laid over a spongy kind of memory foam. The edges of the seat and the armrests were of undemanding stuffed leather. The seats instantly made up for the starkness of the interior.

Ron, however, was not examining the furnishings. Instead, he was craning his neck around the cabin as if in search of something. His forehead now had a thin red line running across it.

He sidled over to Michael. "Soooo, buddy," he said slyly, "where do you keep the mini peanut bags?"

The pilot laughed heartily, making everyone around look over, and shook his head. "Ah, Ron, you _are_ funny…. We don't carry any food or peanuts on board to save weight. Anyway, we'll be in Kabul in an hour or two, and you can eat then."

"NO PEANUTS?!" Ron gazed frantically over the pilot's shoulder, as if expecting a flight attendant or cabinet to pop suddenly into view.

Kim, on the other hand, was concerned with other matters. The cabin had a closed, slightly claustrophobic air because of a feature she had not noticed from the outside: this airplane had no windows. She peered forward into the flight deck to see two very realistic, exquisitely detailed images of the view outside the plane. She quickly noticed why it the image looked slightly "off-" the scenery was coming from two flat-panel computer screens. Spotting Jonathan, she edged over to him. "Uh, Jonathan," she said, an edge rising in her voice at every syllable, "why don't the pilots have actual windows?!"

He chortled, much to Kim's displeasure. "Hoo, Hoo! Why would the _pilots_ get windows?? The nose needs to be the most aerodynamic part of the ship! Besides, the screens allow us to cut though fog, rain, and darkness. They're actually better than real windows. Screens are the way of the future!"

Kim's brain was reeling. Fantastic new airplanes she could take, but _no windows for the pilots??_

Reading the alarm in Kim's face, Jonathan softened. "Kim, don't worry. Michael and Scott have had hundreds of hours of flight training and simulation with this airplane. I've heard that they are quite good, bordering on supernatural, at videogames. Flying with screens is natural for them. And on the plus side," he said, brightening and relapsing into the mechanics, "no windows cut the patristic drag down to almost nothing, and we have almost a complete laminar flow over the surface. The titanium skin is seamless; it was inject-molded. Too bad about the break for the door, but we have to get in and out. If you noticed, it doesn't have a handle because of its drag properties. It's held shut with electromagnets." 

Reassured, Kim's brain went slack as Jonathan began to ramble about his airplane. _It's always the same with boys and big engines. Only now it's_ plane _parts instead of... car parts._

Thankfully, he was cut off by Michael's voice issuing from overhead speakers – the pilot and his aid had positioned themselves in the cοckpit while Kim and Jonathan were talking.

::Ladies and gen'lemen, if you take your seats, HVST Flight #465 can begin taxiing. Than' you.::

Everyone sat back into a seat. Kim chose to sit in the middle seat of the second row. Ron reclined to her right, and Jonathan settled to her left. She snuggled into her bucket seat; her body had to have sunk at least an inch into its surface.

A _boop_ resounded from the control console in the bow, and padded restraints similar to a roller coasters flipped up and lowered over them from behind the seats in a soft hydraulic whoosh. Taken aback by the formidability of the restraint, Kim shot a nervous glance at Ron, who returned it with a weak smile.

Jonathan shifted slightly in his seat to face Kim. "Here we go!" he said excitedly. "Now, this airplane takes off in a slightly unconventional manner. We haven't developed an engine powerful enough to take us to hypersonic speeds yet, so we give it a head start on the runway with a large steam catapult. It's like the ones on the _Clinton_-class carriers, only on steroids. It launches us at about .75 Mach, and then the rockets on the wingtips kick in. They're able to get us to around Mach 7, which just barely pushes us into the scramjet's operating speed. Then the s-jet takes over, and we're cruising!" He settled back into his seat and relaxed as if going for a routine flight on a 787.

Kim squared herself in her seat and gulped. 

After about two minutes, a clunk emanated from below the front gear strut, and she felt the plane move forward. It turned and spun for about five more minutes as it taxied to an unseen runway. Finally, Kim felt the airplane reverse for a second, revolve 180 degrees, and lurch to a halt. Peering between the rows of seats in front of her, she could see snatches of cοckpit and saw that they were at one end of a seemingly endless runway. An off-white trough ran down the exact center of the tarmac until it was lost on the horizon. A small white shuttle glided down the track toward them until it disappeared from view beneath the nose. Seconds later, Kim heard it latch onto the nose gear with a loud clunk. There was silence, broken only by the pilot's murmurings of check-off. 

"…Thrust vectors gimbaled…"

"…Cabin pressure optimum…"

"…Steam pressure engaging…"

"…We are green to go …"

"…Green here…"

"…Let's roll."

"…Rolling."

The PA system squealed into life again.

::…. Sorry 'bout the feedback people…. Alright, we're about to launch. You'll find that in a Scramjet, the G-forces on take off are a little more intense than a normal jet. We ask if you would simply relax into your seat until Scott turns the seatbelt sign off. Than' you!::

A few yards below Kim's feet a compressor hummed to life, followed by a faint hissing. There was absolute silence in the airplane. Kim sensed, rather than felt, a growing strain on the vehicle, a mounting pressure for forward movement. It was like the fighting bull straining against the gate before exploding into the arena with the pistol blast. The hissing of the steam grew louder, and the floor sloped forward a few inches. It seemed the shuttle was just containing the forward urge…

A murmur from the flight deck – steam pressure was at maximum.

Michael and Scott high-fived, and they whooped into the microphone,

::_Strap in…!_::

::_'Cause the_ Falcon _**flies,**__ baby!_::

These words struck a chord in Kim's brain. She could think of no living memory of where she had heard them; yet she had… somewhere. Perhaps in an echo, or a dream, or the dream of a dream...

In any matter, her musings were swiftly driven out of her head by a series of red lights, like a drag strip Christmas Tree, illuminating one by one above the cοckpit entrance.

_Beep... _

Beep...

Beep...

Beep... 

Boooooooop!

The last glowed green and Kim heard something shear away under the nose.

She instantly understood why the seats were so plush.

The craft exploded forward like a bullet, forces smashing her into the padding of the seat. On all sides, she heard thuds and oofs as others shot backward. This was the same as -worse than- a bad body check from Shego. There was a tremendous screaming whoosh beneath her feet. The speed and pressure were growing… growing… growing! There was a lurch, and the floor pitched upward.

::Disengaging catapult…:: came Scott's voice over the intercom, very calm and only slightly distorted from the strain. Silence ensued for a second, and Kim felt the floor drop a few feet, sending her heat to her throat. The backward thrust hung back for a moment, suspended… 

::Engaging rocket pods in three, two, one. Rockets firing.::

Kim heard a roaring from outside on both side of the cabin, and the airplane shot forward again with incredible ferocity. The force pressing her into the seat had doubled to crushing intensity. Her ears had to be level with the seat backing by now…. She twisted with a huge effort over to view Ron, seated beside her. 

Rufus was wrapped around an armrest for dear life, his little buck teeth bared. Several tears ran down the cloth where he had slipped. Ron was clinging to the safety restraint, his eyes bugging and mouth stretching into a yell, unheard because of the noise, of what was screaming through Kim's head:

_Shiiiiiiittttt!_

For all Kim knew, she had left the power of speech back at the tarmac.

She wrenched herself over to look at Jonathan. She could not believe his calm demeanor- why, he was even _yawning!_

Turning herself forward with a monumental effort, Kim noticed an excruciating pounding in her temples. She opened her mouth, and the pain subsided as she heard her ears pop. She now understood why Jonathan was yawning- it equalized pressure at this extreme gain of altitude.

The speaker coolly reeled off the growing speed increments::Mach Two... Mach Three... Mach Five... Mach Six...:: 

After a few minutes of the shrieking rockets, Kim began to hear a growing, resounding roar from just below her feet. As its tempo increased and she was shoved harder and harder back into her seat, she heard Michael's voice.

"Mach Seven! Scramjet is online!"

The voice below her grew into an earsplitting bellow, rattling the airplane while sending it forward at unheard-of, bone-crushing speed. Kim felt as if a giant hand was forcing her, pushing her, down, down, down. She swore her _nose_ had to be level with the cushion now. She didn't know how much more of this she could take; the edges of her vision were blackening from the G-forces...

But slowly, slowly the noise and shock receded, and with it the crushing thrust as all way brought up to speed. The maelstrom below her dropped to a strong, steady hum. The seat reformed itself, pushing her back to a normal position. A powder-blue "Seatbelts OFF" sign pinged to life, and the restraints retracted smoothly, disturbing the absolute, shocked, strange silence after the fury of takeoff. Unsnicking his seatbelt, Jonathan stood up and stretched deeply.

Taking his lead, Kim loosed the belt across her lap slightly. As she did so, she felt a strange lightness, and she floated about a millimeter off her seat. Standing up, bouncing a little higher than she normally would have, she took the first proper breath in ten minutes.

_"Whooooaaa!"_

Jonathan, Simms, and Dr. Director all burst out laughing at the redhead's stunned amazement. "So, I take it this was your first trip in a Scrammer?" said Simms with a chuckle.

"Yeah! I've been in high-speed jets before, but nothing... nothing like this! Where the hell _are_ we?!"

Michael strode over, the airplane under autopilot and Scott's command. He grinned as he replied, "We're very roughly at 70 degrees latitude at 300,000 feet, or about 57 miles up, going at 7,610 miles an hour. That's the reason you feel light- you're so far from the earth's surface."

Kim glanced out the view screens. The clouds looked far below them, tinged with gold by the afternoon sun. They were flying through a sort of light mist. Above the airplane, the sky dissolved into the inky midnight of space. The view was breathtaking.

Ron shakily stood up and put a hand to his stomach. "Ohhh, guys, I'm feeling kinda crummy in the tummy... Sorta' like I've been eatin' Styrofoam!"

"That'll be the altitude adjustment. We're only at 57 miles- the _Falc'_ gets up to 100 miles on a trip to Beijing. Given our current speed, we'll be landing in an hour."

Kim whistled. "Damn... now I really _can_ do Tokyo in a school night! Where can I get one of these spankin' things?!"

Simms smiled sadly. "Sorry, Kim, but the CIA won't let us bring it out until we let NASA catch up a bit... they might be available in the next two years."

Ron was gazing out the cockpit window, looking rather uncertain at their extreme height. "So, ehh, how are we getting down?" he said with a hint of anxiety.

Jonathan took on a continence of delight, eager to bring out a bit of knowledge from the deep well. "Well, as I said before, we don't have an engine powerful enough to take us between Mach 7 and 5. When we run out of fuel, we'll glide the last few hundred miles in. She," and he tapped a bulkhead, "can actually move faster on a Trans-Atlantic flight than a Trans-Asia one because it carries less fuel. The shape of the plane itself generates lift; it's what you would call a lifting body. We get an outstanding lift-to-weight ratio, around 15-1; a normal jet gets 7-1. The plane lands on an extra-long runway that is especially built for the high speeds of take off and landing. There's one in about every country- several in the major ones like the United States, Britain, Germany, China, Russia, Japan-"

"Hey, Ron," said Kim with a slight smile on her face, "now you can see Yori any time you want..."

Ron groaned. "Gaahhh! She never, NEVER seemed to grasp the fact that my pleading, desperate cries for some sort of humanity or comfort were not my "American style jokes!... Besides..." he said with a slight smile, "...I've got you now!" 

"RON!" she hissed, blushing, but smiling embarrassedly all the same, "There... are... people... around!"

The other members of the Special-Ops squad simply looked away, and grinned.

Behind them, Andrews Air Force Base was silent except for the cawing birds returning to their nests after the huge noise. The ground personnel who had stopped their jobs for a moment to see the takeoff and craning their necks to see the airplane until it disappeared into a small, shining dot returned to their tasks. The air over the tarmac was still and serene except for an undulating, shimmering column of superheated air winging away to the east.

_Over There, Over There!  
Send the word, send the word,  
Over There!  
That the Yanks are coming,  
The Yanks are coming,  
The drums rum tumming everywhere!  
So prepare,  
Say a Prayer  
Send the word,  
Send the word to beware  
We'll be over, we're coming over.  
__**And we won't be back till it's over over there!**_

-Over There  
George M. Cohan

April 25, 2007  
72 Degrees West  
11:58 AM

To be continued... 


	9. Tminus 24

**9. T-minus 24**

April 25, 2007  
Afghanistan  
Kabul Int. Airport  
Runway 077  
9:56 PM (local time)

A sultry velvet night was falling, the last dim rays of evening sun slipping beneath nearby mountains. Faint breezes sent small puffs of sand scuttling across the faded gray tarmac as powerful searchlights from the control tower illuminated a small, shining dot to the west.

A low thrum invaded the still air as the dot grew and sharpened. All at once, the thrum deepened to a roar as Scramjet Flight #465 hurtled into focus, nose-high, gear down, a hook protruding from its posterior. The ship kicked up an apron of desert sand as it came, and small minerals in the dirt caught the lights and glimmered like a sequined veil.

The gear hit the ground in a gray cloud and ear-splitting _shreeet_, followed a second later by the dull twanging of break-away arrestor cables. The _Peregrine Falcon_ slowed further as sturdier cables caught and held, and deployed a gaudy red and white parachute out the rear. With this added resistance and screaming brakes, she coasted to a halt not two hundred yards from the end of the runway and vanished a moment later as the dust cloud caught up.

This time, green-coated technicians dashed onto the runway. The leader's helmet was emblazoned with "مولى" – Chief. On their heels sprinted a squad of combat-ready U.S. Marines, and a division of Humvees sealed off a perimeter.

As the dust settled, clinging to the lower half of the ship and removing its luster, the hatchway slowly creaked open. The pilots, followed by Simms, Dr. Director, and the rest, filed out. Jonathan stretched and rubbed his back like recovering from a car ride.

Ben staggered out last, slightly pale and clutching his stomach. "Ahhh, I… am… _not_... going… back… that… way!" he wheezed as everyone congregated at the foot of the ramp, "I'm not an air person – I'm a sniper! I'd like to keep… my feet on the ground… for the time being… Thank you!"

Kim, after asking a nearby Marine the time and resetting her watch, joined the group.

Jonathan saw her and smiled. "So, how was the trip?" he asked pleasantly.

"Not that bad. It was real smooth while we were in the air-"

"We were flying over the jet stream."

"-Right. The slowdown to landing was a little bumpy – I got slammed into my seat restraint," she said, rubbing the front of her shoulders and wincing, "But it wasn't as bad as take-off."

"How are you feeling? The time-zone whack gets to a lot of people, especially in hypersonic jets. Do you want a canteen of water? A few Tylenol? I can get you a electrolite gel pac if you'd-"

Kim held up a gloved hand to stop his flow of inquires. "I'm fine, Jonathan... Really!" she added to his inquistive look. "At the same time Mom was putting in the language chip, she checked out my body clock. She found that it realigns with almost impossible speed. Says that it's simply because my genetics rock!" she laughed, the first true enjoyed laugh in many days, and continued, "Mom also thought that all my globe-trotting had altered it somehow, and it became more fluid through the shock tactic of having to get on a plane, land, and instantly have to kick some butt. She surmised the same thing had happened to Ron." Kim rubbed her shoulders again and massaged a resounding crick in her neck. "Gahhh! That's better... How soon did you say they would get the new engines online?"

"Oooh, sorry Kim, but they might not have the technology for another year or two."

"Damn." She paused and looked around. "…Have you seen Ron? Wait, there he is now…"

The man of the moment swaggered over, munching on an MRE with another tucked under his arm. "Yah know, KP, these MRE things aren't so bad. I haven't had anything to eat since dinner last night, and by now I could eat the plastic container and smile. These things are spicy… and crunchy… and the crackers are such an interesting texture! Plus, plus, look at this!" Ron dug excitedly around in the tan pouch and brought up a small brown bottle. "Miniature hot sauces! Not quite up to Bueno Nacho, but close!"

Kim rolled her eyes and sighed.

Simms completed a quiet, hurried discussion with a soldier, a Major according to his insignia, who straightened up from listening to the commanding officer and nodded. He waved to the Special Ops team. They meandered over, Ben still a little shaky in the knees.

"Hello, everyone," he said, "I'm Maj. Geovonii, commander of the American base here. Sorry for all the formality and guard; we've still been having tussles with the Taliban. If you all will pile into the Humvees, we'll drive you to the barracks."

Kim squeezed into the rear bench seat in one of the vehicles next to Ron and Mr. Barkin, who was taking up most of the room with his square shoulders. It would have been a tighter fit even without him – as Kim struggled to close the unexpectedly heavy door, she noticed several layers of armor welded to it, as did the roof. The throaty growling of a V12 solidified the proof that this was an up-armored HUMMWV.

The April air snapping through the vehicles partially down window had a different feel. It was colder, for one thing, and drier. It also had an unidentified quality to it that somehow told Kim that she was in different world. She looked out the grimy, dust-streaked window to the star-spangled sky. The ring of mountains surrounding the large valley looked sinister in the twilight – the fear of the unknown. Kim shivered, but not on account of the breeze.

The convoy rolled into the lodging area of the base and throttled down the engines to reduce noise. They passed row upon row of Quonset huts, looking so much like tin cans cut in half, flipped, and buried in the ground. The vehicles shuddered to a halt outside a pair of darkened sleeping quarters. Maj. Geovonii ordered the occupants of one Humvee into one Quonset, bellowing instructions about "Leave your junk in the huts! Don't take it with you tomorrow; pick it up when… when…" he stalled at that point. "…When you all come back," he murmured.

Mr. Barkin heaved his rucksack over his shoulder and marched into the building, looking perfectly at home. Ben, the twins, Michael, Johnson, and Wilson followed at his heels. Shortly, an orange light outside their Quonset's door illuminated and spread a cheerier glow in the area.

The Major stalked up to Kim and Ron's Humvee and motioned for Ron to roll the window down all the way. "You- You're in that hut," he said, pointing to the remaining, un-illuminated barrack. "By the way," he continued, "Somebody named Wade said these were for you." He dug in the trunk and removed two briefcase-sized cardboard boxes, handing each to the teens as they got out.

Kim examined hers. The lid was faintly inked in Wade's computer watermark, and her name was scrawled across the top in what looked to be the 13-year-old's typeface.

Ron was gazing around the sleeping complex. "The Major told us that Wade _said_ that these were for us!" whispered Ron excitedly as they walked toward the hut. "Maybe he's here!"

Simms unlocked the door and held it open.

"Come off it, Ron," said Kim, crossing the threshold. "You always get your hopes up too high. We haven't seen him in the flesh since Junior Year!" she continued, walking backward into the room to talk to Ron's face. For some reason, he had stopped dead in the doorway. "Every time we are about to see him, he bails! What makes you think any different this time?"

"Actually, Kim, for once _Ron_ is correct," said a cool voice from behind Kim's back.

She whirled on her heel. Standing in the dim, dusky light of the building, partially illuminated by beams of silver moonlight streaming in from small, square side windows, stood an African-American boy, barely reaching Kim's chest, dressed in signature light blue t-shirt and blue jeans. Topped off with curly black hair, it was unmistakably the form of 13-year-old technical whiz, super-genius, and spymaster, Wade Load.

From the doorway, Ron gave a loud, happy, "Heeeeyyy!" and dashed past a dumbfounded Kim with his hand outstretched in a high-five.

As Ron's fingers brushed Wade's palm, the latter's fingers disintegrated and disappeared. Ron, caught off guard by the lack of resistance, stumbled for a few steps as his momentum slowed. Kim could see the right side of Wade's body flicker and pixilate before it snapped back to its opaque state.

After discovering what had happened, Ron swore and groaned. "Waaade!"

Kim looked rather put-out as well. She glared. "You pulled another Holo-Wade flake?? What'd ya do _this_ time?!"

Wade grinned sheepishly. "The CIA wouldn't let me on the scramjet. Something about me getting ideas and forming mental blueprints. Besides," he continued, "I'm not that popular with the Feds. Washington tends to get its boxers in a bunch when a pre-teen can crack their supposed 'best-guarded confidentialities'."

Jonathan and Dr. Director entered the Quonset as he spoke, grimacing as he pointed out that fact.

Kim sighed. "I'm checking with the real Wade," she said, pulling out the Kimmunicator and activating it.

"No good, Kim," said the screen's image and the hologram in unison. "We are one and the same. I've got a MRI hooked up to my head, so anything I want to say or do, my hologram does the same. I'm in the process of loading a high-power computer application to the hologram so it can think and react even when I'm not awake. I've been up the past 48 hours, and with loading this program and the conflicting time zone you are in, I'm ready to crash in my chair."

"All right, all right, fine," said Kim exasperatedly, pocketing the Kimmunicator. The double voice was starting to get annoying.

Ron was kicking the floor beneath Wade, causing the shorter boy's legs to shimmer. "Wade, where'd ya hide the projector?"

Wade smiled supremely. "I don't need a projector, Ron. I've got the world wired…" He pointed to the flat box in Kim's arms. "Now, let's get down to business. Open your box."

Kim lifted the lid and drew out a set of clothing. The form on top, she discovered as she shook it out, was an obsidian mission top identical in size and color to the one in her backpack. Beneath the shirt was a pair of cargo pants. These were kaki, instead of the usual olive green.

Ron too had examined his outfit, his face falling in disappointment at the similarity to his usual mission ware. "Awwww, no super suit?!" he said, a twinge of hurt to his voice.

The comment had piqued Kim's interest as well. "Yeah, Wade, why don't we have battle gear like two years ago?"

Wade held up a hand. "Remember how I cautioned you that the suit was still experimental?"

"Yeeahh?"

"Well, it was almost a good thing Erick short-circuited the suit when he did, because-"

"Don't even _mention_ that slimeball!" growled Kim, not at all eager to reexamine her worst character-assessment blunder to date.

"-Because," the African American cut through, "I ran a tech. scan of the suit after the event and discovered that the electronics in some of the features had some major bugs. The suit forms a living membrane– the electromagnetic gel actually soaks into your skin, bonds, and becomes part _of_ you. That's how it was able to form the refraction paddle without causing torturous pain, and heal itself and your shoulder wound at the same time. Had Erick not stopped you, you probably would have reached the damaged features. Had that gel fried, it could have blown an arm or leg off, or else horrifyingly disfigured your body, perhaps permanently."

Kim's eyes grew wider as Wade spoke. As he finished, there was a long pause. "Oh," she said meekly.

This time it was Wade's turn to glare. "And the other thing is, when you went joyriding in that suit and got it zapped, you just about flushed three and a half years of research down the drain. You do have a tendency to break my new toys – although, on a happy note, I was able to salvage the Centurion Project after you had finished with it."

Kim was feeling abashed by that point, and muttered "Sorry," as she blushed. She ran the mission top through her fingers, eager to switch the topic off her guilt. She noticed something odd about the fabric. "Wade," she asked, "did you put this through too much hard water? It's feeling kinda starchy and a bit heavier than my usual cotton stuff."

"Oh," said Wade, brightening, "That's because it's woven out of Kevlar."

"Kevlar?"

"With a bit of Gore-Tex for breathability and flexibility!" he added with a smile. "It's too thin to stop a bullet, but it might lessen the impact a little. It's meant more for protecting against shrapnel and for its toughness. It lessens the impact of a punch more, too. I made the pants out of the same stuff as well. They're kaki now instead of green because the terrain around here is more sand-colored than forest.'  
'A downside of cotton is that it gets carried into a bullet wound easier, which could have a higher risk of infection. This is designed to sheer around a bullet, so you don't get fabric in the injury. Check your backpack, too!"

Kim lifted a backpack from the bottom of the box. It was heavier and bulkier than her current one. She rapped her knuckles against a plate behind the backrest portion.

"The backpack's rear has a bullet-resistant plate sewn into it. It's a thin ceramic core encased in Kevlar," explained Wade. "Ron's got one as well. It'll protect your back, and if held, your front, against low-caliber small-arms fire."

"Sure, Wade," said Kim. She yawned involuntarily. "Ahgg, sorry. It's late."

"Ok guys, I'm done," said Wade, and his holographic image flickered and died.

General Simms noticed the yawn and pointed sternly towards a bed. "Nighttime. It's past 22 hundred hours. Get a good night's sleep- we're rocking Osama's boat at 0900 hours! Bed. Now!"

"Can I at least send an e-mail telling my folks what time our 'd-day' is?" whined Kim.

The general softened. "All right. But name the steps you are to do tomorrow first!"

The redhead held up fingers as she counted. "One, ride the chopper to the rim. Two, take out opposition from the cliffs and rappel in. Step Three – blow the door. Four, get out of a potential firefight as quickly as possible, and go up the platform. Five, follow Wade' directions until I get to bin Laden. Step Six," she finished, smiling evilly, "Give that son-of-a-bitch what for!"

"Ooo-rah! Semper Fi, CARRY ON!" cried Simms, smiling. "…Now you can call your parents."

Kim flicked on the Kimmunicator. Wade had returned to his usual post behind a bank of monitors. "Wade, before you crash, could I say 'night to my parents?"

"Sure thing, Kim." He fiddled with wires for a moment, but came back to the camera with a frown. "Sorry; they're not at home – the time zone thing. Your dad's at the propulsion lab, your mom's taken the twins out for a lunch."

"N-n-no big," said Kim, her insides crumpling to ash and leaving what felt like a burt-out shell. "Just tell them we're shipping out 9:00 AM our time, OK?"

"Whatever you say… Does Ron want to call?"

Kim handed the device to Ron, who transmitted a message of bravado. The full effect was lost, however, when he had to pause several times to choke down tears.

After he was done, Kim laid the transmitter by her cot. "Thank you, General-"she began, but he was already gone. Upon hitting his cot, he had fallen into a slumber of the same intensity as a sailor's. Snores were also emanating from Dr. Director and Jonathan.

She gazed around. It was the first time she had really examined the room. A ruler-straight walkway ran down the center of the building from the door at their end to another door at the far end. A row of metal bunk beds lined each corrugated wall.

She sank down onto a mattress for a moment before springing into Ron and embracing him tightly.

"Hey, KP, wha- ooof!" started Ron as Kim barreled into him, but then he relaxed and returned the hug. They mutually clung to one another, their old hopes, dreams, pictured destinies, as hard as they could until they broke away and sunk onto their respective beds.

Kim eased onto her military-issue pillow and pulled up the sheets as her brain whirled and spun with a mix of raging hormones, trailing thoughts and emotions, and uncertainties and trials of the dawn. Slowly, her mind cooled and she lapsed into fitful dreams. Had her mind not been so preoccupied, she would have noticed that the absence of a set of snores meant that she was not the only one lying awake.

April 25, 2007  
Afghanistan  
American Foreign Base  
Barracks 51-B  
10:48 PM (local time)

To be continued...


	10. Zero Hour

**10. Zero Hour**

_Cry Havoc! And let slip; the Dogs of War!_  
-William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

_There's gonna be a SMACK-DOWN in this town! I am the big dog- WOOF, WOOF, BARK!_  
-Ronald Stoppable

April 26, 2007  
Middleton  
Stoppable Household  
Ronald Stoppable's bedroom  
12:00 AM (local time)  
T-minus 2:00 hours 

_Be-eep-eep… Be-eep-eep… Be-eep-eep…_

The shrill voice of a wristwatch alarm sliced like a knife though Mrs. Possible's dreamy bliss, untroubled by war, hate, or heart-wrenching separation. She groggily rolled over and examined the luminous digital display on her arm. Realizing the significance of the indicated time, the woman swung her feet out of bed, careful not to disturb her sleeping husband. Easing into her slippers, she shuffled down the unfamiliar hallway and short flight of stairs, clinging to the banister and blinking away the fug accompanying a middle-of-the-night awakening. Padding across the darkened living room, she glanced at the iridescent clock over the fireplace mantle.

_12:01. I wonder if she's up yet._

Anne walked into the kitchenette and flicked on a low-powered light beneath the stove-hood microwave. Pulling a ceramic mug, faded and scratched from years of dishwashing, from the hanging cupboard, she busied herself with the kettle. After a few minutes, the kettle began to steam and whimper. She quickly removed the pot from the stove to prevent its wail from awakening the rest of the household. As Mrs. Possible poured the scalding water into her mug, she let the steam flow over her face. It gently warmed and soothed her sinuses, dissolving the night sand from her eyes. She deposited an extra teabag of _Aunti Jama's Extra-Strong Herbal Honey-Lemon Tea_ into her cup and ambled to the family-room couch, careful in her footsteps to keep the hot liquid from sloshing over the rim. She sunk gratefully into the couch's comforting embrace and laid her mug on a side table with a gentle clunk. As Mrs. Possible waited for her tea to steep, the early-morning chill wafted through her thin flannel pajamas. She shivered and rubbed her arms vigorously.

_Me, a doctor, and I forget my bathrobe…_

She glanced at the clock again.

_12:03. Is it colder there, with the higher elevation?_

She sighed and lifted her drink, aerating the teabag with her pinkie finger before taking a long, slow sip, basking in the flavor as the warm tea flowed down her dry throat.

Mr. Possible sensed an odd emptiness to his left and eased himself up in bed. He had felt the mattress sink and then ease slightly, but took a little while for his sleep-starved brain to engage. Rolling groggily over and looking where his wife should have been, he saw only rumpled covers and a heated depression in the bedspread. Throwing his bathrobe over him against the cold, James wandered to the top of the stairway. Gazing down the steps, he saw his wife sitting on the couch, taking slow pulls of a drink and staring intently at the clock.

Anne heard a creak on the stairs and looked up. She saw her husband standing in the stairwell with a robe on, looking caringly down at her. "Hon'?" he called gently.

"Oh, hi, dear," she replied quietly, patting the cushion next to her.

He trotted down the steps and took the seat. "What're you doing up so late?"

The auburn-haired woman pointed to the luminous clock, now reading 12:05. "Wade left a message saying Kimmie-cub would be waking up to 'go in' 9:00 their time, 12:00 here. I set my alarm to get up and wait with a Kimmunicator so that if anything… develops, I'll be one of the first to know," she said softly.

"Ahhh, I see," said Mr. Possible, embracing his wife tenderly in a sideways hug.

The upper hallway light clicked on. Mr. and Mrs. Stoppable's silhouettes appeared at the top of the stairs. "Whazzat?" asked Mr. Stoppable sleepily, "What's going on?"

"It's your son and our daughter. Wade said they'd be getting up around this time, locally."

The second pair of husband and wife positioned themselves behind the Possibles. Together, they watched in silence as the second hand swung mercilessly around, and waited… waited… waited…

Afghanistan  
American Foreign Base  
Barracks 51-B  
9:00 AM (local time)  
T-minus 2:00 hours

_Peep-peep-be-deep…. Peep-peep-be-deep…. Peep-peep-be-deep!_

The familiar notes of the Kimmunicator prodded at the teenager it snuggled against, hurling the sleeper from a pleasant dream of home to the present, chilly reality. Kim gritted her teeth and swore inwardly as the realization of the dawn slowly trickled inward. Her nerves began to hum and spark, reminding her of the morning of the SATs. Her mind knew, however –and it was a fact she was dreading- that this morning's test had an extremely unforgiving, pass/fail grade.

She blearily opened an eye and pressed the magenta center button.

"Hi, Kim! This is your wake-up call!" uttered Wade's voice out of the small speaker, infuriatingly cheerful to her barely-conscious state.

"BRRaaHAummm…" she yawned grumpily, lifting her head a few inches. "Whaa' th' siiitchh?" She rubbed the side of her face slightly, having slept in such a position that the coarse fibers of the standard-issue wool pillow had left pale brands across her cheek. "Just wait till puberty really hits, kid, and then you can talk to me about early-wake up calls," she spat.

"Oh, I'm not Wade," said the device brightly, "I'm his hologram, designed to look, think, and react just like my creator. The real Wade is crashed on the bed behind me- it's midnight here."

"Well, goodie for him..." she growled. Kim flicked off the handheld and levered herself up in bed, yawning and raking her fingers through her waves of tousled hair. She had almost gathered her wits together when-

BANG!

The barrack door exploded inward, nearly blasted off the hinges, and slammed into the wall. Slowly it swung back out, wavering almost to the point of dislodging the pane of glass.

Kim sat ramrod-straight in her cot, adrenaline thundering through her veins, all ramifications of sleep forgotten. Ron awakened in a terrified yelp and nearly slammed into the upper bunk in his surprise. Rufus scurried up his shoulder and buried himself in the blonde's messy hair.

A rugged black combat boot, followed immediately by the square form of Gen. Simms, barreled into the room. "UP AN' ATTEM!!" he bellowed like a bullhorn, clearly feeding off his days as a drill sergeant. "IT... IS… 0900… HOURS! ON THOSE FEET! MOOOVE IT!"

He was dressed in full brown-and-tan combat gear. The extra amour and miscellaneous belts, canteens, grenades, and pouches swelled him to twice his normal size. Black and menacing, the barrel and sights an M-16 spiked from behind his back like a minaret.

Ron sunk back to the bed, exaggeratedly clutching his chest. Kim's flight-or-fight instinct ebbed, and she looked around. They were the only ones in the barrack; Jonathan and Dr. Director were nowhere to be seen, their beds made as if to pass an admiral's review.

As the warm embrace from her bed ebbed, a cold bite settled on her skin. Kim glanced out one of the hut's small square windows and found it wreathed with a light layer of frost. She shivered and rubbed her arms, discovering as she did so that she had slept in her flight suit.

She coughed slightly, and the men turned around. "Err, guys," she said pointedly, gesturing across her body, "I've got to, um, change, so if you, uh, don't mind…" She made a spinning motion with her index finger.

Simms caught on immediately, and discreetly strode to the far end of the barrack. She waited until Ron had turned squarely to the wall and lightly shaded his eye with a hand (catching a slight grin as he did so and hurling a pillow at him) before grabbing the box of her mission clothes and squirming beneath the sheets. As she wormed into the new pants and top, she studied their texture as it slithered across her skin. They felt a little rougher and stiffer than her old cotton things, but stronger, lighter, and more resilient as well. The ink-black top was familiar and comforting, but the new kaki cargos were offensively bright and foreign in their originality. Hoisting herself out of the bed, she slipped on her gloves. The supple leather molded to her fingers like a second skin. She coiled and uncoiled her hand, marveling at the sinewy power of her body. She punched her right fist into her left palm, grinding the resistance of a sandpaper-like grit covering the knuckles and palms.

Ron unzipped his flight suit, and Kim quickly diverted her eyes downward to lace her steel-toed onyx shoes. She looked up in time to see him with his pants half on, bouncing on one leg, try to shove the other through an awkwardly folded section, teeter, and crash to the floor.

_Nothing I haven't seen before_, she thought, glancing at his smiley-face boxers, and quickly had to subdue a rush of hormones.

"Hey…K…P…little…help!" grunted Ron from the floor, finally stuffing both legs through his pants.

The redhead laughed, and pulled the blonde to his feet. "Ron, after a stunt like that, I'm worried about you getting shot, or worse, tripping in front of the President when it's all over!"

He wriggled into his black turtle-necked shirt and chucked grimly. "I may be uncoordinated, but I'm no idiot. I've got the Ron Factor on my side… it's all about the intangibles, baby!"

Kim snorted. "For your ass's sake, you'd better be right. Just hope that "Mystical Monkey Power" doesn't decide to fade out on you…" She turned to sling on her backpack and discovered a cardboard box beside her bed, inked in same printer watermark as the clothes boxes. She slit through the tape with a hairpin, and discovered a thick, synthetic olive belt folded neatly inside. She slowly withdrew the new accessory and discovered it identical to her old belt except for two key features.

This new belt had a holster at each hip; the left was cloth with a red snap, and the other was black, full-grained leather. The individual fabric pouches were now bigger and squarer, and looked of a specific size. Kim hesitantly drew a .40 clip out of her backpack, and slipped it into a random pouch. It fit perfectly. Realizing now what she had to do, she slipped her Smith and Wesson from the backpack and into the leather sheath and eased the grappling gun into its corresponding cloth pouch. She extended her arms and looked herself over, slowly exhaling as she did so: new weight, new weapon, and new unnatural mission color. _This is… SO the drama… sooo the drama!_ Her emotion began to race, to overrun. She mentally smacked herself. _Get a grip, Possible… remember Simms – Don't think; do. You can take this... You can do this… It's time to go mission mode!_

Beside her, Ron snapped on his belt and urged Rufus into his shoulder.

At that moment, the Kimmunicator chirruped. Kim lifted the blue communications device from her bedspread and turned it on. "Sitch me, Wade."

"Kim, I was warming up the scanners and discovered a low-orbit imaging satellite had passed the target zone overnight. It got more detailed map of the upper floor of Osama's base than mine. I'm streaming the images right now and compiling them into the database. I should have it to you by the time the chopper lands."

"You are _golden,_ Wade… Kim out!" She flicked off the Kimmunicator and pocketed it.

Simms noticed they were dressed and treaded toward them. "Ah, you're done," he said. He had lowered his voice back to an acceptable level. "Your belts arrived early this morning… The deliveryman stated Wade had sent them. They hadn't arrived with the rest of your stuff because they got hung up at customs…" Simms paused and gestured to the front of the barrack. "C'mon… everybody else is warming up before we all go to the helipad." He opened the now slightly warped door and walked out.

Kim followed him. As she stepped over the threshold, the frigid air hit her with a shock. It was even colder outside than she had thought. The early morning light gave the landscape a textureless appearance, making objects flat and bold as if silhouettes. It deepened the far mountains to a velvety chocolate and the sandy, dusty ground to a rich tan. A waxing gibbous moon, tinged with a faint golden halo from the morning sun, hovered faintly on the horizon.

She gasped, and razor-sharp air sliced at her nostrils and throat. Her exhale swirled away like steam to intermingle with the pale whitish-blue sky. The chill sucked at her exposed midriff, neck, and forearms, making her skin tingle. Shuddering, she clasped her arms to her body. _Damn, why didn't I think to bring my red Club Banana coat?!_ Her mind paused and reconsidered. _But… considering the coming action, maybe a coat wouldn't be a good idea. It's bulkier, for one thing, and means more fabric to be carried into a bullet wound…_ She mentally winced.

Simms ushered them into a burly Humvee crouching in front of the Quonset hut. After slamming the rear door shut, he strode around to the driver's side door and collapsed solidly into the worn leather seat. Geysers of faint gray dust erupted along several tears running perpendicular to the seam across the top of the seat. The general sat for a moment, blowing sharp, forceful bursts into the cup of his hands, before reaching for the mike of a battered CB radio lying on the dash. He keyed the mike and static hissed faintly through the interior. "This is CT220," he said, "Does TO copy?"

::This is TO:: squawked the radio, ::We read you loud and clear. Continue with transmission, CT220.::

"I have code four clearence and am moving to niner-niner-zero."

::Rodger on that code four. Carry on.::

"Semper fi!" Simms clipped the handheld unit back to the receiver and awakened the truck's engine. He maneuvered the gently growling vehicle through the maze of dull silver huts until reaching their outskirts. Clearing the last rows of sleeping quarters behind the base, he gunned the accelerator and soon they were barreling along a pitted dirt road across the wide, desolate plains of Afghanistan.

Kim leaned against the window (a difficult feat considering the vehicle was rocking and skipping across the desert) and settled on the sill. Distant, rugged, white-streaked mountains ringed her viewpoint, reminding her strongly of the arid salt flats of Utah. A solitary jet winged across the wide, empty dome of sky, its path as straight as a ruler. The wispy contrail created by high altitude and cold air streaked behind like a comet's tail.

Gradually, she began to hear a slight snapping over the pinging of stones against the vehicle's undercarriage. As a small black building rose on the horizon, the snapping grew to crackling as Simms slowed and pulled beside the structure. She strained to the right to see the rear of the building, but anything that was behind it was blocked except for the edges of a flat concrete pad and a windsock. Roughly 100 yards to her left rose an earthen berm, alien to the flat landscape. About a half-dozen humanoid shapes grouped in front of it. As Kim climbed out of the Humvee, the crackings started again, and unblocked by the Humvee's skin, were now blasting retorts. Startled, she snapped her attention to the hummock and realized she was hearing calculated pistol shots. Ron clambered out the opposite door and jumped involuntarily at the noise. Simms took no notice and carefully scanned the horizon surrounding them.

Kim walked cautiously toward the bullet stop, for that is what it was, and noticed Dr. Director firing a large-caliber handgun. She was dressed as Simms; tan flecked with brown replaced her usual navy jumpsuit. Presently her short brunet bob gleamed in the wan sunlight. A helmet with mike and an American assault rifle lay 25 feet behind her position.

Her arms jerked visibly from the force of the recoil, which sent a flaming tongue from the muzzle and a sharp crack to shаtter the still, cool morning. Bites of earth kicked up in the berm almost simultaneously with the report.

Looking over her shoulder, the eye-patched woman noticed Kim's approach, ejected the magazine, and cleared the firing chamber. "'Morning, Kimberly," she said in a conversational tone, "Glad to see you up and around."

"You too, ma'am," replied the auburn headed girl. She looked around the intelligence head. Behind her grouped the remaining squad members.

Wilson, Johnson, and Michaels sported their traditional eye paint, mission grab, and surly expressions. Each toted an M4 carbine, the smaller cousin of the menacing M16 and weapon-of-choice of the US Special Forces. A stubby, wide-mouthed M203 grenade launcher hung beneath the main barrel of their rifles in order to facilitate their hip grenades. Oliver and Matt Whithers each hoisted a Javelin anti-tank guided missile. The weapon looked like four-foot bazooka with a black bulge at the rear. A large, boxy, computerized scope stuck prominently from the left side of the barrel. The twins also strained under dozens of grenades and several munitions belts.

Mr. Barkin grimly clutched a M249 SAW machine gun, capable of devastating suppressant fire. Jonathan was relatively light, carrying only an M4, several red bundles of C4 inert high explosive, detonations equipment, and a hand-held PDA. Ben carried nothing at all, performing stretching exercises to the side. When asked, he glanced at Simms before stating simply that his rifles were already taken care of.

Kim scanned the crowd and noticed with a hint of foreboding that she and Ron were the only ones not in fully armored combat gear.

Simms paced up from behind Kim and thrust more than a half-dozen palm sized leaden boxes into her hands. "There you go. Ten magazines. Five rounds each, giving you 50 shots total. Forty of them are the Jacketed Hollow Points I mentioned back in Washington, and the remaining ten are Full Metal Jacketed if you run into a locked door or body armor…"

After Kim slipped the ammunition into her hip pockets, resignedly placing her old favorites, the knockout gas container and constricting paste canister, into her backpack, Simms handed her another two magazines. "Get yourself warmed up," he said, pointing to the crude firing range. He tossed a M4 to Ron, who inelegantly caught it with an air of grim finality. "Don't worry about using ammo; Uncle Sam has more than enough to go around!"

Kim trudged to the firing line, feeling the slight burn of 22 eyes against her back.

"Fire when ready!" Simms called from behind.

She smoothly loaded the clip with a precise _ka-chick _, unlocked the safety, and took stance. She paused and looked down at the powerful weapon held in her hands. Closing her eyes for a second, she slowly inhaled. After holding for a moment, she deeply exhaled in a slow rush, feeling the warm exhaust play across her lips. Snapping her eyes open, she leveled the gun to firing position.

_Loadstanceaimsafetydeepbreathherewego,_ her mind reeled off, _onlyonethingleft… fire. It's all about fire._

She gently squeezed the trigger. A penetrating blast echoed around her ears as her arms kicked upward. Instantaneously she brought the muzzle back to the firing plane, set her teeth, and rapidly fired the four remaining rounds. The muzzle sent pyrotechnic flashes searing across her vision. As the spent clip ejected, she reflexively whipped to her ammunition store, jerked another clip from its pouch, slammed it into the weapon, and resumed firing.

_Whoa,_ she realized as the gun barked in front of her, _I'm… I'm… not afraid anymore! I can feel my hands oozing sweat, but I'm not blinking or starting… It's become another gadget, a-a __**part**__ of me…. I can fire mechanically and effortlessly…. and I'm quite not sure I like that._

The second clip ejected and using adrenaline as fuel, she whirled, jammed the gun into the holster, and dropped to one knee. Performing a sweeping roundhouse kick, she transferred the centrifugal force into upward motion.  
She leapt skyward, executed a 360-degree front flip, causing bars of sunlight to swirl dizzyingly into a pinwheel, and stuck the three-point landing.  
Fully reaching her climax, she hurled herself into the air as high as a grown man's chest with a guttural yell while snapping her legs outward to neutralize two invisible opponents.  
Spent, she fell panting to the sand.

Looking up she saw the squad staring at her, many in slack-jawed amazement, and caught Ron's complimentary, seen-it-all-before grin. Simms was the first to close his mouth. He walked to Kim and gave her a hand up, at the same time murmuring to her ear, "Oo-rah, Possible, oo-rah.... God, I'd hate to be the poor a**hole that gets you p*ssed off…"

Wiping sweat off her brow, she walked back to the group as Ron moved forward to the firing line and braced. He deliberated for a moment before swiftly checking the gun and coolly loaded a box into the magazine port.

_He's not my little side-kick anymore..._ thought Kim as Ron swung the M4 to his shoulder, sighted, and unlocked the safety, _I thought that his behavior in the Lil' Diablo crisis was a fluke, but maybe... maybe there's something in him I don't see…_ Her thoughts were cut short as Ron opened up.

He fired in quick, 5-shot bursts. Flashes of light, like strobes, flicked across the sand as they competed with the sun for dominance. Sharp and staccato, a _tattattattattattat_ rattled the air with each salvo. The recoil trembled through his body, but he ground his feet in the soil and fired on. Kim saw his face screwed into a snarl of concentration against the noise and force. His expression was so transported from his go-lucky attitude that Kim was slightly frightened.  
After roughly 15 seconds, the gun stilled and Ron let the rifle drop from his arm. He ejected the empty box and slung the gun crosswise over his shoulder. Beckoning Rufus out of his pocket, where the pink rodent had dived when the noise had started, he strode back to the group.

"Ahhh," he said as he reached them, "I've built up a powerful need for a Naco!"

Rufus chittered "Mmmm-hmmm" and rubbed his tummy.

Ben chuckled and divulged a handful of insipidly wrapped bars from one of his many cargo pockets. "Only energy bars for right now," he said, giving them to a dismayed Ron. "It'll give you energy, but digest before combat makes you barf." He handed several to Kim as well. "Follow us… our ride's this way."

The party grabbed their weapons and marched toward the small black building next to the Humvee. Jogging along, Kim opened one of the unmarked silver wrappers. The bar inside did not look like much; it was pasty brown, vapid and rather unappetizing. She gingerly nibbled on a corner. It didn't taste like much either, but as she swallowed, she felt a pang of hunger biting at the edge of her stomach fade away and vitalizing energy surge through her body like a fluid.

As they walked into the shadow of the building, Jonathan strolled over and fell in step with her. The jangling of many clasps and buckles on his outfit added a background to their footsteps. "The helipad is just behind this building," he said, "It's the remote strip we use for special operations like this one."

"Thought so," said Kim. She paused and looked around before continuing. "…So, what chopper are we using? A Blackhawk? I would think a Chinook would be too big for-" she broke off as she saw Jonathan starting to grin and rolled her eyes. "Oh, great! Is this another case of rattle-Kim's-reality?! I **hate** it when you do that!"

His grin widened further. "Sorta… The chopper's warming on the pad as we speak."

"Wha-? R-Right _now?!_ We can't be more than 100 feet from it! I shoulda heard it!"

She turned the rear corner of the building and froze.

"…Whoooaaaa."

Before her on the sun-baked concrete, its accelerating rotor blades sparking in the morning light, stood a helicopter the likes of Kim had never seen. It was long, raked, and sleek. Its skin was deep, dark green, almost black, in color. Roughly 50 feet long and 12 high, the streamlined shape was a result of the sides of the airframe angling together to form a sharp ridge along the equator of the craft. A beaklike nose gave way to a spacious canopy, which flowed with the angled lines of the craft. A rotating .30 caliber machine gun dangled beneath the nose. Gull-wing doors opened behind the canopy in the beam, revealing benches for sitting and olive drab ammunition boxes. From the hump of the rotor, the angled tailboom swept deeply back, almost touching the ground, into a bulbous end with the rear vertical rotor mounted amidships. A rudder like an airplane's stuck up from the bulb like a "T."

_If a sportscar could be modified with a helicoper,_ she thought in amazement, _this was probably it._

Oddest of all, even though they were less than 75 feet from the helicopter, the backwash from the blades rippling though their hair, they could still speak normally. Instead of a racking _phupah, phupah, phupah_ common to most helicopters, this one was making a relatively quiet whuping sound as the rotors sliced the air.

She turned to Simms, still dazzled by the unconventional sight and sound of the chopper. "Lemme guess," she said wryly, "Skunkworks again?"

He grinned. "Correct. You're looking at the RAH-80, Transport Class. Holdover from the RAH-66 Comanche. The boys in Washington cancelled the Coman' project back in '04, but some private sectors gave us the moolah to continue development underground."

"How does it-" she began, but Jonathan cut her off.

"-fly so quietly?" he finished. "Thought that was coming. We used 5 rotors instead of the normal two or three, and made them super-efficient. Then pods (Can't tell you specs 'cause that Kimmunicator might have a recorder) were placed on the blade tips. A lot of chopper noise comes from the high speed of the blades, not the engine; they go so fast that the tips and leading edge go supersonic and make a boom. The pods disrupt the shock waves."

Ron was gazing at the new vehicle with a continence of rapture. "Ifsh deffnly mot ike moy gfheuy igf mphown!" he said though a mouthful of powerbar.

"Come again?" said Kim sarcastically.

The blond swallowed heavily. "I said, 'This is definitely not like my Huey I've flown!'"

"You...? Flown?" asked Jonathan, arching an eyebrow.

"Uhhhh, Vietnam: Redux," he said hurriedly with a sheepish grin.

As they walked toward the helicopter, raising hands to keep the slight blowing dust from their eyes, the pilot emerged from the opposite side of the craft. He was dressed in the standard olive flight suit for the US Army. A helmet with a large, mirrored visor obscured his face above the cheekbones. A coffee-colored mustache flicked with grains of wind-driven sand, probably put there by the chopper backwash, shielded a weak upper lip.

"OK, people," he said over the whining turbocharged engine, "get your gear stowed quickly; We power up this bird in 5." He extended a hand, "Simms, Director, Leigh, welcome aboard."

Ben popped a hatch to the left of the open passenger compartment with a low thud. Kim immediately realized why he had previously glanced at Simms before answering her question; she saw two long, menacing rifles with intricately detailed scopes gleaming in the dim light of the cargo hold. As Mr. Barkin and the Whithers brothers handed him their weapons, he contemplated for a moment before grunting here, nudging there, and then sliding the heavy support guns into a bit of space that seemed made for them. After wedging the guns into the small compartment, he picked up steel ammunition boxes and edged them into position. As Kim observed him place the eighth box into the space, making a wall nearly flush with the opening, it began to dawn on her the terrifying length and probably intensity of the upcoming battle. As she stood, the slight fuzz of panic from earlier that morning began to make itself known at the edges of her brain.

Meanwhile, Ben, which some difficulty owning to equipment stacked within an inch of the door lip, shut the hatch with a bang and locked it down. He took a step back and admired his handywork with a self-congratulatory smile. "My family used to travel across the country in a covered pick-up, and we didn't have the money to sleep in hotels every night," he said, as if answering a question to no one in particular, "My sister and folks slept in the cab, and I slept in the bed with the gear… I was in charge of packing, so if I didn't use every available space, I wouldn't have a place to sleep that night."

The helicopter blades began to pick up speed, and Dr. Director beckoned the squad into a packed huddle away from the growing air wash.

"I know this is gonna sound cliché," she said, "but…but… before we take off, I'd like to have a moment for prayer." She reflected for a moment, gathering her thoughts, and the members quieted, bowing their heads respectively. "Dear Lord-" she began, breaking off suddenly and quickly glancing at Ron. He nodded consentingly, and she continued. "Lord, please watch over us on our endeavor… Keep us safe. Let us finish what we have come to accomplish." She paused, and continued in a slow, choked voice. "…God, I know there's a-a good chance t-that some of the people standing around me may…may not be here this evening. May luck prove me wrong, but please… if they must depart, let them have peace, and meet their Maker quickly…" She sniffed, loud in the dead silence of the group.

To Kim, the noise of the helicopter had become a faint background distraction. She was praying too, from a cavern in lowest point of her heart. To what, she had no idea. God had never come much into her thoughts on missions, not even as she stared up the sights of Drakken's latest super weapon or death ray. But now, after what she had trained with and was fearing to expect, it was different; different indeed.

Dr. Director's pronounced English accent cut into her thoughts again. "A-and finally, I know we're about the see things… do things… that totally defy codes of brotherhood and morality… We only ask for Your forgiveness and the hope that we can somehow, somewhere make reparation for what we are going to do..... Amen."

After a few seconds of silent contemplation, the group rumbled "Amen." Standing beside Ron, Kim heard him whisper "_Emuna_" in the same dialect she had heard him read the Torah at his Bar Mitzvah.

Behind them, they heard the pilot yell, "Letta' get a move on!" Johnson, Wilson, and Michaels checked their watches, set their faces while snicking down their rifle straps, and broke away toward the helicopter. The rest of the group dispersed and followed their lead.

Kim and Ron turned to do the same, but before walking a few paces felt a forceful hand on their shoulders, swiveling them around. When Kim stopped, she found herself staring into the face of General Simms.

"Here, you two," he said in a low, quick voice. He shoved a rattling, nondescript, white-capped amber pill bottle, a swath of fleshy-tan colored bandages, and a small, transparent Nalgene canister containing an off white, granular substance into their hands.

Kim held the container to the morning glare; in the strong light, the powder looked a bit like sugar.

"There's high-strength aspirin in the amber bottle," explained Simms. "The bandages are made of chitosan – funky kinda stuff in 'em that stops a gooshing artery in seconds. The canister is filled with QuikClot; it's something you can put on a wound to make it stop bleeding." He stopped and looked almost pleadingly into Kim's emerald orbs. "...Try not to get yourselves killed today, alright?"

She was taken slightly aback by the paternal attitude from the normally hard-bit commander she knew from Area 51. After a pregnant pause, she gave a weak smile. "Try to, sir."

"Ditto, man," intoned Ron.

"Thank you… Semper Fi," said Simms, and he steered them toward the waiting chopper.

Crouching low, hair streaming behind her like a phoenix's tail, Kim swung herself into the open bay of the passenger compartment, avoiding the impatient glare of the pilot. The other team members sat in olive-webbing bucket seats strapped to the rear bulkhead facing forward and several seats behind the flight deck bulkhead, facing the rear of the plane. The array reminded Kim of the interior of the Blackhawks she had flown in during her Iraqi mission. Seeing all the seats filled, she dangled her legs over the lip of the compartment, strapping herself in with a convenient restraint belt imbedded into the floor. Ron sat to her right, using another floor belt.

Simms dashed to the other side of the helicopter and rolled himself in. He quickly double-checked their radius around the machine before yelling to the seated pilot, "Beam us up, Phil!"

"Will do, sir!" said Phil, giving final, irritated scowl to his watch, and slowly nudged the collective pitch control lever with his left leg.

The skids gently kissed the ground before the turboprop whined in earnest and the craft clawed skyward. Kim felt a swooping jolt in her stomach at the sudden rise, familiar to her unorthodox lifestyle, and an odd, dangling sensation in her legs as fifty feet of crisp air replaced the ground below her feet. Despite the rotors swirling into one continuous blur, there was little mechanical sound besides a slight air whup from the blades and the growling engine.

She twisted to Jonathan, sitting in the seat behind her. "Blade pods are _so_ doing their jobs… besides parachuting and hang gliding, I don't think I've ever been this quiet in the air."

The blond-haired man smiled serenely and craned his neck out the door to better observe the vista. "Beautiful out here, ain't it? Solitude and free views – it's the part I like best about flying. I'd do this every day if it wasn't for-"

He was interrupted by a grating screech as Simms locked his M16 into a pintle beside his door. Mr. Barkin's SAW cut a corner off Kim's view as he stuck it out her bay. Humming gently, the .30 caliber beneath the _Comanche's_ beak warmed up and quested its surroundings like a curious nose.

"I got the nose gun calibrating, Barkin," called the pilot from the flight deck. "Do you and Simms have our flanks?"

"Yessir!" replied Kim's high school assistant principal.

"Good, then." He rotated joystick-like arm sticking in front of him with his wrist. The helicopter floated, as if supported by a giant, invisible hand, to point to the west. Phil kicked the cyclic forward with the heel of his hand; the craft pitched downward, forward, and whirred toward the distant, forbidding mountains.

After a minute or two of fast, level flying, a radio imbedded in the intricate control panel squealed to life.

::This is TRACON!:: said a gruff, authoritative voice, used to instant compliance to orders. ::Unidentified craft, you are leaving secure US airspace. Please state clearance code and intent or we will scramble!::

Phil tapped his headset microphone. "This is RAH-72, over. ZIP number 36-R. I have niner-niner-zero clear, and am in transit to waypoint Charlie-Charlie-Foxtrot. I repeat: Charlie-Charlie-Foxtrot! Requesting transfer from frequency Calpa to TAC-2. Over."

Silence hovered in front of the radio before the air traffic controller gruffly cleared his throat. ::Uh-ha…. Sorry for that, 36-R. Carry on; you have clearance… You are now being transferred to TAC-2:: He paused for a second. :Oh, and one more thing…::

"Yes?"

::Give 'em hell.::

"Will do, Sergeant," said Phil, cracking a smile, and snapped off the radio.

-1:31 hours

***

Roughly ten minutes later, scragged mountains, pasteled with hues of sand, light brown, dark brown, and occasionally black from a missile strike, rose and fell beneath their feet. The air had grown colder, crisper, and clearer with altitude, and again Kim wished she had brought her coat. Sharp relieves of startlingly white, fresh snow clung to the north side of selected rocks in small patches. The helicopter knifed though the air, eerily quiet, the slipstream playfully dancing with Kim's hair and turning her legs, extending into the airy abyss, into footicles. She snuggled closer to the body heat radiating from Ron's shoulder. As she did so, she saw Dr. Director glance sharply at the landscape flowing beneath them and then glare at the altimeter. After several repetitions of this, her mouth hardened into a thin line.

"Pilot!" she barked.

"Mm'hmm?" he replied, raising an amiable eyebrow.

"I thought that when we agreed to your services as our transportation, it was clear to you that this bird was not to climb over 150 feet!"

"But…but… to my knowledge, we're well under any type of civilian radar!"

"I… don't…care, dammit! I'm not taking any chances; al-Qaeda may have no radar whatsoever, or they may have military-grade equipment from sympathetic oil cartels. And if they do, they'll be waiting for us with RPG's the way you're going!" She leaned into the pilot's face, an ugly expression crossing her mouth. "Now…Take us down to 150 and not a meter more!" she snarled.

"Y-yes, ma'am," squeaked the pilot as he leaned away from Dr. Director, an alarmed, fearful expression across his face. He nudged the collective, and Kim felt a sudden upward pop to her stomach as the ground reared below them. Dust directly below the helicopter swirled into a miniature dust devil as the helicopter descended. She could now see facets of individual rocks and coarse, wiry, dark olive plants flicked across the terrain. Squinting, Kim found them very like anchored tumbleweeds. Reflecting on the recent dialogue, she was shocked at Dr. Director's behavior.

_Jesus,_ she thought, _if the Director I know - cool, suave, in-control Dr. Director, is getting tense, then… then I don't even want to think about what I might do…_ She scanned the horizon, fearfully this time, and made to load a magazine into her pistol. Instantly, a hand knocked it out of hers, spinning it almost out the open doorway. She caught it with her fingertips just before it would have tumbled over the edge.

"Whadd'ya tryin' to do, Possible?!" Mr. Barkin's voice hissed in her ear. "Don't you know not to carry a loaded, unfixed gun in a helicopter? The thing might go off, ricochet in here or give away our position!"

Started, Kim quickly slipped the offending magazine back into a pouch. Nevertheless, she pointed the weapon out the door between her thighs to bring it closer to her ammunition.

"Hey, Possible," said Michaels, his eyes roving the holster on Kim's left hip, "I've always wondered: how does that hair dryer thingy work?"

Kim popped the snap and pulled the dark red grappler out of its pouch. "It's not really a hair-dryer anymore… After a certain point, the villains figured out that whenever I pulled out a red hairdryer, a smackdown was in progress. Wade did some diagrammic speed trials on me, and reduced the bulb shape in the rear to make it easier to pull out. The vents actually work, because they vent a CO2 cartridge stored in the handle - that's why it's so bulky. The cord retracts into bulb, the hook folds down to store in the barrel (more in my backpack), and the silver thing on the muzzle is a cord cutter. "

"I've noticed that the hook sometimes springs open at different speeds."

"Yup." She turned the grappler sideways to show what looked like an incremental wind speed controller running along the top. "The hooks have spring-release timer built into them. If I push the switch forward, it delays the spring in case the hook has to fly a long distance or puncture a bulkhead. If I pull it back, and it opens almost immediately after release, so it can grab soft things or when I'm freefalling. That feature came in handy in the Cheese Wheel…"

Michaels sat back into his seat, and the conversation died. Kim returned to gazing at the breathtaking expanse of imperialistic mountains stretching to the horizon.

Twenty minutes later, she noticed the tempo of the engine slow and the rotor blades drop to a low thup-thup. The helicopter had fallen to less than 75 feet off the ground; Kim could see crisp details of her own shadow, flecking upward as it mounted a small ridge. Looking forward, she saw a sharp, U-shaped lip slicing through the landscape. From her low vantage point, she could only see from one lip to the other, making the depression appear bottomless. She saw Phil's hands tighten on the controls as silence fell in the compartment. As Mr. Barkin swept his machine gun across the opening with more urgency, his knuckles a faint shade of white, Kim's heart began to drumroll and a faint slick of perspiration moistened her forehead.

Phil jerked the cyclic; the craft turned a long, slow, banking arc. Instead of coming head-on to the target, the chopper swung away from the edge and about fifty yards to the left. Just as Wade foretold, the crater disappeared completely as they sunk behind a low earthen hummock running along its edge. The skids licked the ground, cackling on the loose sand and gravel, and settled to the hard-packed ground with a gentle bump. Dust sprayed in a blinding veil for a second as the whirring rotor blades spooled down before settling back down. Kim unsnicked her seatbelt and tentatively lowered one boot, breath a cautious whisper, to the rocky ground.

Zero Hour  
-1:00:00

The Kimmunicator rang in her pocket, startlingly loud in the expectant silence. She flashed to her thigh pocket, wrenched it out, and turned the volume down with the same embarrassed smile of one turning off a cellular phone during a movie. Quickly glancing at the disapproving frowns of every leader present, she activated the device.

"What's the sitch, Wade? Can you make it quick?"

"I completed the computerization of the new route images."

"Right on time, Wade! You _rock._"

The young teen pulled at a morsel of raspberry Slurpster. "I try… Would you like me to upload it to your side now?"

"Please and Thank You…"

A second later, Wade's face was replaced by a shaded, 3-dimensional map of the upper quarters of their pending target. Small red dots paced the halls.

Ron peered over Kim's shoulder at the map. "Ooooh, Wade, where'd ya get the skin?"

"_SplinterCell: Nightshade,_" came the smug voice behind the screen.

Kim shoved Ron off her shoulder and glared a deadpan at him before turning back to the Kimmunicator. "Right… Well, thanks. Wade!

"Keep yourself safe, Kim."

"I will."

"Wade out."

Kim pressed the red button again, and the little screen flickered into darkness. Pocketing it, she walked to the main group, where Simms and the pilot were shaking hands.

"Thanks a lot, bud," said Simms.

"Nooo problemo. Never hurts to help out the U.S. of A."

"Hang around till we know what's what and we get the ammo out… if this first part goes south, it might be handy to have a helicopter gunship around."

"Gotcha."

Simms turned to the group at large. "Weeeell, let's do this thing."

The squad nodded grimly, and Kim saw Ron hug his M4 closer to his chest. Ben gave a silent "follow me" motion with his fingertips, and the rest of the group silently spread out behind him. Crossing the remaining forty yards at a quick, stooped run, he slowed and sunk to his knees upon reaching the berm. Roughly halfway up, he lowered himself to a belly crawl, the rest followed suit. Kim felt cold stones grate across her bared midriff, poking into her gloves, and heard the heavy breathing of her surrounding comrades. The silhouette of Ben's helmet appeared for a moment against the pale sky as he gained the top before he spread himself as flat as a rug. Kim inched beside him, using just her fingers and toes for movement. Watching Ron collapse just below her after using a rather silly inchworm effect for locomotion, she mentally thanked herself for perusing a copy of The Infiltration and Deception Manual during Library Lockup. The other members slithered into position, more or less looking over the berm. Kim inched forward until just her eyes cleared the ridge and sharply inhaled in a long, low gasp.

Below her stretched a huge, quarry-like valley, half a mile wide and at least a hundred feet deep. Roughly fifteen feet from her position the ground dropped into a sheer cliff face running to the bottom the man-made bowl. Various shades and bands of rock rippled through the walls, shale layering with sandstone and granite with quartz. Winding its way out the northeast corner was a pitted dirt road, almost lost in it deep slice through the rock. Panning, Kim saw a large blast door glinting in the western rock face. The metal sheen was unnatural against the dry, dusty hues of native rock. Looking closer, Kim saw several upright, black shapes, fuzzy at such distance, placed in pairs at strategic intervals around the lower rim and clustered near the door and road.

"Al-Qaeda?" Kim muttered out the corner of her mouth.

"Yeah…" grunted Ben, not taking his eyes off the scene. His vision danced to each group and stopped there, quivering, as if counting. "Possible," he mouthed again, "Think you could hand me those binoculars?"

"Sure," murmured Kim, rolling softly onto her side and smoothly unzipping her backpack. She pulled out her favorite pair; the gray computerized ones with infrared lenses and a LCD touch screen imbedded into the top, and handed them to Ben.

He carefully took them from her, calibrating them as he glued them to his face, and scanned what Kim was certain to shortly become an arena. After a few seconds of observing, his teeth bared.

"Damn...." he hissed, skin around his eyes furrowing into wrinkles.

"What??"

He did not reply, instead handing back the binoculars and inching backwards, sitting up facing the helicopter once out of view from below. He beckoned the others to follow, and Kim slid down beside him.

"How many sentries, exactly, did Wade predict there would be?" he shot.

"Uhhh, I dunno… 'bout ten or twelve."

"Well, I counted twentyish. You sure this thing was kept under wraps?" He glanced at Simms.

"Positive," the general replied tersely.

"By the looks of it, they're just out of sight of each other," Ben settled into the gravel, nervously clasping and unclasping his hands in front of him. "Another thing – I picked up either blue or black antennae boxes clipped to their sides. I have a feeling they're walky-talkies… can I get Wade to scan for wireless communications?"

Kim again pulled the Caribbean blue transmitter out of her pocket. "Wade, it's Kim… Can you sweep for walkie-talkie transmissions?"

"Sure thing," said her tech friend. He sat bolt upright in his chair, eyes closed and hands palmed in a moment of Zen-like meditation, before pouncing low on his glowing machines. His hands blurred into brown streaks on the keyboards, a rustling cacophony erupting beneath them like rain pounding a tin roof. After a second of white-hat hacking, muffled beeping rang from one of his monitors and a printer regurgitated a swath of inscribed paper. He ripped it from the output slot, dryly shuffling and stacking the sheets before his eyes as he scanned the results.

"Yup," said Wade slowly, reading the printout, "I'm definitely picking up on short-range wireless encrypted 462 MHz frequencies of the handheld category. Looks like they've got… Motorolas and Radioshacks…Using two-mile range." He growled exasperatedly, cupping his index and thumb below his lower lip in deliberation. "This makes things a bit more difficult… Disruption is no problem; I could crash the network sleepwalking -"

"So why don't you?" piped up Ron.

"Not that simple, dude," explained the African American, "Long transmission breaks get noticed; puts them on their guard. What would be best would be 30-second-tops scrambles while Benjamin took pairs out at a time, then reinstating the network while he acquired another target," he finished, pausing. "…Ben, what's your professional opinion?"

Ben contemplated for a moment as everyone's gaze swung to him. "Johnson," he said suddenly, "Go pop the armament hatch. I need one M24 and one M82, please." He turned back to the group as Johnson scurried off. "Well," he said at last, "we'll have to change our plans a bit… there's too many for just me alone to take out. I'll have to have a partner, taking down the second man before he can radio assistance."

A nearly palpable sharp intake of breath ringed the group. Kim almost felt her insides take a surprised step back; she hadn't counted on this new development.

"So," Ben continued as his hazel eyes recorded the reaction, "I need the second-best marksman in the group… someone who can aim and take the recoil and not miss… someone who's used to high-pulse situations…" His pupils traveled the group to come to rest on one member, and the others followed his gaze.

It took a moment for Kim to register why everyone was staring. _What… XYZ…? Or...... or..... ah....... crap._

"Kimberly," began Ben, "Besides me, you are the best shot in the group. I'd like you to use-"

"B-but, but, why… _m-me?!_" burst out Kim. "I've no former sniper experience! I-I haven't e-e-ever used a sniper rifle before! W-Why not… Director, or Simms, or… or Mr. Barkin?? They're older; they've more experience with shooting and weapons!" she said, desperately gesturing toward each in turn.

"Kim," said Dr. Director coolly, "I've seen you execute maneuvers with your grappler I didn't think possible, if you'll excuse the pun."

"I agree," said Simms. "You've been able to fire that hook, the recoil jerking the thing almost into your nose, look away from the target while the hook was still in-flight, and hit your aim point dead-on. Remember Area 51- I've seen you in action. Don't deny it, girl; you've got skills."

"And, and!" chimed Ron, "You've blown up –what's the count now?- a lair and a death ray using only your compact mirror-"

"Ron, you know that was only a fluke," pleaded Kim, "Drakken's lair blew up because I was really, really lucky and he had polished his lamp fixtures the day befo-"

"Case in point:" said Ron, overriding her. "Drakken. Magmachine . Cheese Wheel. You pulled that grappler out your backpack _while in freefall,_ and got a solid shot into a prime section of Wisconsin Swiss!"

Kim looked around. Those who had seen her in action were grinning knowingly, and those who hadn't looked positively amazed. She saw that her feeble argument was slashed apart like a $1 beach ball. She had lost. Her shoulders sagged slightly from the realization and she took a deep, steadying breath. "…Alright," she said softly, "Let's get this over with."

She woodenly accepted the smaller M24 rifle from Johnson when he returned. Roughly the shape of a .22, it was flat black with a stock and front grip of composite plastic. The normal peep site had been replaced by a large, glinting scope. Clamped to the end of the front grip was a midget bipod with rubber feet. Kim glanced at Ben's weapon. His made hers look like a pop gun. The small, hollowed butt was almost nonexistent. The action looked ripped straight from an automatic weapon– downward pointing grip, angled magazine, perforated heat dissipater. Atop the action was a complex-looking scope, resembling a flashlight in shape. A lengthy barrel, at least the width of Kim's thumb, protruded from the dissipater and ended in an odd box at the muzzle.

Ben caught Ron ogling the giant rifle. "The M82," he said with a grin. "Anti-personal-and-machinery weapon; fires a .50 caliber bullet. 10-round semi-auto magazine, 1,800 meter range. It's loud and bright, and the box on the end of the barrel is a flash suppressor." He took a thin black tube about six inches long from one of his pockets and screwed it into the muzzle. Reaching into another pocket, he pulled out a shorter tube and tossed it to Kim. "Noise suppressor...." He paused and turned to the girl. "The M24's maximum range is just under a half-mile, and I don't want any chances of anyone reporting in..... Possible, I want you to help me take out opposition grouped near the door and road and under the cliff face. I think the M82's reload time will allow me to take out sentries on the far wall. Got that?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"Good. Follow my lead... The rest of you, stay out of sight."

She crawled up the berm after Ben, her mind hovering in a state of numb shock. As her view narrowed to the bottom of Ben's combat boots as he inched upward, her mind began to scream in protest from the action of her muscles, afflicted with a tinge of hysteria.

_Wha'?! What do you think you're doing?! I'm Kim Possible, dammit, __**Kim Possible!**__ I've... I've built my whole life around helping people! HELPING!!!_

She and Ben took the ridge. In small, fluid movements, he gently unsnapped the bipod on the front of his gun and settled into a prone position. Kim mechanically sunk beside him and clicked out her bipod's legs. Releasing a pent-up breath, she let the weight of her body and the rifle sink into the dirt through her bones, not muscles. Sharp pinprods developed from small, edged rocks sunk into her arms and gloves. Ignoring the wet, cold ooze of groundwater though pressure points in her pants and elbows, her mind continued its struggle of wills.

_...I-I'm not a sniper! Close-quarters-combat; fine. A few seconds of pressure, heat, blood, punches, in-your-face action that doesn't give me much time to think, and then I'm on to the next goon... it's what I was made for, grew up with. But I'm __**not**__ made to sit on some lonely ledge, learning my enemy, his attributes, his idiosyncrasies, and then deciding the when and where of his death by the pull of my trigger... like some... some cold-blooded killer! Like a sociopath! I don't DO that! I'm Kim Possible!_

She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them, and looked at the rifle mechanisms before her, trying to clear her mind. Her extended left hand disappeared behind the front grip. Her right rested upon a knob protruding from the right side of the action. She saw it connected to a small sliding hatch at the top of the gun, surrounded by a budge of black metal. The cool bulb under her gloved fingers felt oddly familiar, almost natural. She let her attention drift, and a recollection swam in her minds eye.

It was several years ago – sophomore summer, if she remembered correctly. Bored, not yet able to drive, yearning for involvement with an ache. She had graduated from the Pixie Scouts years before due to age, but her love of the outdoors remained, along with her natural inclination for teaching and leadership. A local Boy Scout camp had had a shortage of staff, and she gladly signed up as a counselor for the Environmental Science and Personal Fitness merit badges. Once, during free time, she had wandered down to the archery/rifle range. A kindly instructor had showed her the basics of firing a bolt-action .22 rifle, and soon she was plugging bulls-eyes into paper targets. Later that week, much to his chagrin and embarrassment, she had run into Life Scout Will Du attempting to finish the Rifle Shooting merit badge. Their naturally competitive heads clashed, and quickly they were deep in a fierce, heated battle of marksmanship. Both secret agents were excelled shooters, Kim with grappler experience and Will from GJ basic training. The results were very close, but in the end it was Kim who won, quite literally, by a cross-hair.

A gentle nudge to her leg slammed her back to reality, the daydream disappearing in a puff of smoke.

"Kim....Hey, Kim! You with me?" muttered Ben, giving her a puzzled look. "You were staring... frosted."

"Yeah... I'm here."

"OK.... Here's your ammunition," he dug silently in his pack and pulled out a wood block with two dozen 7.62mm bullets stuck upside down in it. "We're gonna aim for the door guards first."

Kim picked one up, twirling it slowly between her fingers, examining her blurred reflection in the golden brass casing. She gazed from the round to the rifle bolt and exhaled.

_Let's see if I remember how to do this... Uhhh, it was lift, pull, insert... um, push, press, sight, err, control the breathing.... and... and... pull the trigger._

Flattening beside the gun, she lowered her left eye to the sight and kept the right squinting toward the action. She pulled the knob upward with a gentle click and slid the breech past her eyebrow. The metal door slid back to expose a small box a little bigger than a AA battery. Groping beside her, she grasped a round and dropped it into the dark cavern. Keeping her eyes in the sight, she fumbled to slide the round into the pitch-black firing chamber by touch alone. Tense seconds followed as she scrabbled the bullet with her thumb, only to repeatedly strike a wall.

_Uh-oh... this is the part I always had trouble with at camp..._

As the thought crossed her mind, Kim felt a sudden lack of resistance and the ball of her thumb kissed the far side of the box, the end of the bullet flush with the wall. A heavy cold flowed from her hand, down her arm and though her body.

_There's a bullet in the chamber... I'm about to become a... killer._

The icy chill flashed down her spine.

She smoothly rammed the bolt forward and slapped the bulb down, the rifle gently ca-ca-klicking in her ear. Swinging her right eye to the sight, she tentatively peered though. Her vision narrowed to round circle surrounded by a square of solid black. A crosshair with a glimmering red dot in the middle was transposed across her sight. A small Heads-Up-Display consisting of a needle swinging though an arc of degrees glowed in the upper right corner. The image blurred beyond a hundred yards, rising and falling minutely with her breathing. A bubble of panic rose in her throat as she realized she did not know how to adjust the scope.

"Ben!" Kim squeaked, her voice tinny with nerves, "I-I-don't-know-how-to-make-it-sharp!"

Her partner looked up from his own rifle sight and glanced over at hers. "Just turn the little white knob on top to bring it in focus," he said in a quiet, soothing voice. "A computer in the scope calculates your range-to-target and barrel elevation, and the HUD flashes green when you've got the right trajectory."

Kim reached forward and twiddled the gauge. Instantly, her vision cleared and her man leapt onscreen, as sharp and clear as if she was standing within 25 feet of him. Behind him, she could see individual rivets in the blast door and the edge of his partner's shoulder.

"Thanks," she muttered, crushing her left eye shut and squinting though the scope at her target.

_Funny,_ she thought, _He's not covered with a hijab like fighters in the media. Only a beret-thing on his head. Normal cloak over his shoulders. Tan slacks. Odd, squashed nose – bit like Drakken's, really. Needs a shave... I can see the stubble. Let's see... Slug's holding an AK-47 – too short range to hit us here. Wonder what that bulge to his back pocket is... gun, maybe? Wallet? What could it contain? Visa, Mastercard, ID... pictures of his buddies... wife... kids.... howmanykidsaregonnalosetheirfatherstoday?_

Kim trembled involuntarily. The shudder coursed though her body and into the rifle, making the bipod legs rattle on the hard stone and dislodge several pebbles with a clatter.

"Kim... You all right?" asked Ben, raising a worried eyebrow.

"I'm... _fine!_" Kim snarled though gritted teeth, more to herself than to Ben. She angrily wrenched the rifle back on target, ashamed at herself for losing control.

_C'mon, Kimmie! You gotta get a grip, girl!_ She peered back though the sight at the man whose time in this word was rapidly counting down. _You gotta do this thing... even if you hate to. Remember: Don't think – do..._ Immediately after thinking Simm's maxim, her conscience gave her a punch that, had it been physical, would have staggered even Shego.

_No!_ the other half of her brain screamed, _No! I'm not going to follow that like a mule! I'm not going down that path! It's damn brainwashing – soldier talk! How many -How many?- friggin' people at Nuremburg used that excuse?! 'Oh, I wasn't thinking; I was just following orders,' __**and killed six million people in the process?!**_

_Cool it, both of you!_ broke in a third, meditative party. _I know you don't want to do this, and you can't fool yourself into killing because someone says so, but... if you don't help, who will do it? Who will? No one besides you, Ben, and possibly Dr. Director have the needed marksmanship skills. The lives of twelve people, including your own, including __**Ron's,**__ are at stake here, Kim. I'm sorry, but it's an obligation you have to make._

_Fine..._ said the second voice.

_All right, All right.... Let's do this before my nerve runs out._ muttered the first.

Kim exhaled deeply and felt her insides tighten. She flicked on the Kimmunicator. "Wade, are we ready to run the scramble signal?"

"Whenever you are, Kim."

Ben looked over at her, relieved. "Ok... You fire at the near one, and I'll get his buddy a second later... On my count."

Kim nodded and squared her shoulders, not trusting herself to open her mouth.

"One... Wade, scramble!" he breathed.

The flurry of activity on the Kimmunicator's was unheard; Kim felt as if in a silent bubble that only Ben's voice could enter. Her fingers tightened white on the grips, her index burning on the cold steel of the trigger.

"...Two...!"

She exhaled slowly and held, keeping the sight steadily on the center of the man's chest.

"...Three..." he hissed.

Making sure the red dot pointed squarely at her target and that the rifle was rock-steady, she raised a slightly watery eye from the scope. In the one second her vision was unfocused and blurry, she squeezed back on the trigger.

_Tiifffff!_ The silenced rifle reported flatly like a blow gun as a small puff of grayish-white smoke exploded from the barrel. She automatically wrenched the bolt up and back, the brass casing whizzing past her eyebrow and a wisp of acrid smoke lingering in the chamber wafted into her nose. Ducking down to the lens, she saw her man slumped on the ground, a claret pool darkening the sand below him. His rifle lay discarded a foot away. Blinking back a tear, Kim swung the sight an inch to the left to observe his partner. He was stumbling backward, a petrified expression on his face, sweeping the area frantically with his AK-47. A walkie-talkie was halfway to his lips. With her eye still cemented to the scene, she heard Ben pull a trigger.

_Tiiffff-OWWW!_

It was like watching a sledgehammer crack open a watermelon. Reddish-gray brain matter and cranial fragments sprayed as the left section of the second man's head exploded. What was left of his skull snapped round from the shock, his body following as the gun flew out of his hands. The body spun once and collapsed.

Kim was rooted to the spot in blank horror, brain jammed. In movies, when someone was shot, they normally arced gracefully clutching a wounded body part if a main character, or staggered a few paces before falling if not. This one... this one... just crumpled like a dropped wet towel.

She twisted her head down and sideways, blinking rapidly, trying to clear the image that flared whenever she closed her eyelids. Glancing over, she was astonished to see a smirk across Ben's face as he ejected the casing.

"Got 'im," he murmured in savage triumph, and Kim thought she saw the flicker of a red predatory gleam in his eyes. He caught her wide-eyed stare; the grin faded, taking the primal look with it. "Sorry... I have to get into a mindset for this sort of thing..." He paused. "...That took a lot of courage, Kim... Hellava lot of courage. Not many people can do this... Thank you. Think you're gonna barf?"

Kim shook her head, not trusting herself to open her mouth. Her insides were still in anarchy at what she had just witnessed.

"That's rare. Even I did... on my first job..." his gaze detached and he stared into space for a moment before giving himself a shake.

Wade's voice came over the line. "Okay, scramble is offline... Kim, you all right?"

"Y-yeah..." she said at last. "Hold on..." She inserted another round and slapped the leaver down again. She took another deep, steadying breath and squeezed her eyes shut for a second before turning to the Kimmunicator. "...R-ready."

"Right," said Ben, his tone more clipped. "We're gonna move faster now once they start realizing we're picking them off. Kim, you take the guy in front of that squiggle of shale; I'll cover his pal."

She swiveled the rifle round. "I g-got a bead."

"On my count: one...

... two... –Wade, start the scramble!"

"Scrambling!" said Wade.

"...Three."

_Tiifffff!_

Eighteen guards fell in the next ten minutes with ruthless efficiency. Ben easily picked off fighters along the distant perimeter as Kim eliminated her quota, feeling something wither inside every time she pulled the trigger. She surreptitiously positioned her eye a hair above the sight's view whenever Ben fired.

As the last man collapsed into the dry dust, toppled by Kim's own shot, she took a long, gasping breath and let the rifle clatter from her tight grasp as if the cool metal seared. Half-scrambling, she clawed up the embankment and fell into Ron's surprised arms.

"H—hey KP? You al'right?" murmured Ron falteringly, jerking his head at the grouped squad members over the phoenix plume buried into his shoulder. His message couldn't have been clearer: Give us a sec.

"R–r–r–ronnnn!" Kim raggedly gulped into the stiff cloth near his neck. "...I...I... shot people like a c–coldblooded killer, Ron! S–s–hot them! ...Li–Like a video game... No adrenaline, no fight for my life, n-n-no... _nothing!_ I'm–I'm not meant to take them out like th-th-hat!"

Ron was momentarily stunned. He had seen Kim go to pieces like this only a few times in his life... Maybe the Moodulators had some long-reach aftershocks? He pushed the thought aside, wracking his brains for some sort of comment to lift Kim's spirit. He looked down at Rufus, who was hugging Kim's thick hair and chittering gently. Ron doubted anything could truly erase what his friend had just seen, but he took shot anyway. He smiled wanly. "K-Kim, this isn't going to leave some sort of Wannaweep flashback, is it?"

"RON!"

The blonde winced. _Oops. Not quite._ "Sorry, KP," he said, backpedaling hastily, "Just trying to spread a little Ron-shine."

Kim lifted her head off his shoulder and looked into his hazel eyes, her own pair rimmed with red. "It's n-no big... Thanks." She stood up and flecked her index across an eye rim, _snerting_ in a way that would have been adorable had the situation been less serious.

"Any—any thing I can do?"

She sighed, eyes glazing. "Not really," she said softly.

"You gonna be all right?"

Her eyes cleared. She gazed at him for a long moment and smiled. "Yeah."

They turned back to the group. Mr. Barkin and Matt had unloaded all the ammunition from the helicopter and were now forcing gleaming titanium spikes into the ground. Dr. Director supervised, checking the embedding angle against Jonathan's PDA. Ben had exchanged the rife for a M4. Simms noticed her return.

"Are you going to be able to do this, Possible?" he asked softly.

"Yeah– uh, yes, sir... S-so not the drama," she replied.

"Good."

Behind him, Mr. Barkin called out, "Sir, we've got the anchor sunk!" He and Matt immediately began tying the ammunition boxes, Javelin tubes, and heavy machine guns to a long, black, thick cable connected to the heftiest anchor with a large carabineer. Everyone else cinched on climbing harnesses.

Simms watched for a few seconds before turning back to the teens. "I've heard you guys do a little rappelling," he said, cracking a rare smile.

Kim grinned. Ron groaned.

"Now, watch this little trick. It's what we use to get our gear off the chopper in a HRS."

"HRS?" asked Kim.

"High Risk Situation. Mid-air drop," he said hurriedly, locking on Jonathan. "Is this green, techie?"

Jonathan kneed by the cord, scanning, briefly picking it up and running it through his fingers. He gave a few quick, sharp tugs to each of the knots holding munitions. "This looks green-to-go, Commander," he said at last to Simms. "Give a 'Nice job' to whoever tied this baby up."

"Thank you, sir," said Barkin.

With a nod at Mr. Barkin, Simms gruntingly picked up the arms and olive boxes containing extra ammunition, tottered to the cliff edge, turned to look back at Kim, and grinned at her petrified face as he heaved the lot into the abyss.

Kim dashed open-mouthed to the verge, careful to avoid from the deadly _ffffiissssssssk_ of flashing cable. She looked down at the bobbling weapons, almost floating in the air resistance from their downward plunge, the line screaming shrilly. A _chunk_, a pop; the line beside her twanged tightly on the anchor, and they stopped with a jerk before heaving up and down like an overweight bungee jumper. The surprisingly elastic cable gradually settled the motion, stretching like taffy, until the equipment gently scraped the bottom in a small dust cloud. The whole procedure had taken about two seconds.

Simms peered over the ledge beside her, seeing the gear safely on the ground. He chortled, pumping his arm. "Ooo-rah, I love it when it works!"

Dr. Director tied one end of a black climbing rope onto an anchor and the other to an unflattering climbing harness. She backed expertly to the edge of the sheer cliff and leaned outward, balancing on the arches of her feet. "See you at the bottom!" she called airily, and with ropes sighing, disappeared.

Wilson, Johnson, and Michaels vanished a minute later with stolid military efficiency. The twins, Ben, and Jonathan climbed more slowly; the last thing Kim saw of the blonde was his tongue sticking out in concentration. Mr. Barkin walked himself hesitatingly over the ledge, and Kim overheard him grumble, "_Getting too old for this... Grading some whiney kid's English essay will seem like MP duty after this... Yes sir-ree..._"

Kim laughed and turned to Simms, gesturing with her arm for him to go ahead, as if letting him take the last place in an elevator instead of scaling a sheer face.

"No, Ms. Possible," he said, "You and Ron go first. I'm making sure the area's clear before I come down."

"All right, then," she said, sliding her crimson grappler out of it holder. She spun and fired into a promising section of dirt. She heard Ron do the same to her left. Stomping the embedded claw deeper into the ground, she gave it a check tug. It held. Curling one arm firmly around the barrel and locking another into the "L" of the grip and main body, she backed slowly to the edge. Rocks cracked under her feet and she lurched backward; leaning back, she felt nothing but a gulf of air behind her back. With a smile and "Come on!" to Ron, she kicked off.

Exhilaration. Chill wind snapped her hair upward as she bounded and rebounded. _Man, I love this job,_ she thought momentarily as she swung in, tensed her legs against the rock face and sprung out and down. Adrenaline from the effort washed her brain, and she experienced a clarity and purity of thought she had not had in days. _I was born for this... and after rappelling Taipei 101 to rescue a window washer, this traction is making this so a walk in the park._

In what felt like a disappointingly short time, she felt her body hit the dirt floor and the ecstatic ride ended. The rock face now frowned imposingly down at her. _This place must've had a growth spurt when I had my back turned_, she thought, for the opposite wall now looked far more distant than she remembered. Standing, she tried to shake a nag of eeriness. She revolved slowly, quickly discovering why the place felt unsettling. Apart from the low whisper of wind across the ridges and the clinks and murmuring from the other squad members situating themselves, the wide expanse was silent as the grave. With a shiver, Kim turned back to the wall and whacked a round button on the butt of the grappler. The cable release popped and seconds later the carbon-fiber wire, sans hook, was rattling in the hairdryer's bulb like a runaway tape measure. She fished in her pack for another steel barb, stopped the cable as it reached the end, screwed the new grapple on the threaded tip, and allowed the wide-mouthed barrel to swallow the entire assembly whole.

Looking up, she saw Ron inching down on a prone harness, grinning smugly. Rufus skittered around his back, adjusting ropes and frantically waving his arms like a Landing Signals Officer on a WWII aircraft carrier. Kim was surprised; she and Ron had used those types of harnesses before when dealing with pressure sensors, and the outcomes had never been pretty. She hadn't expected him to think to pack one, nor have the skills to manage it.

Ron had obviously thought the same, surprising even himself. "Ha-ha, K.P," he said when he had lowered himself to Kim's waist level, beaming self-satisfactorily up at her, "...And you thought you were the only one with mad skills! The Ron-dog came to play!"

Unfortunately, the harness chose that exact moment to jam.

"URRAAHHH!" screamed Ron, wrestling exasperatedly on the unbudging ropes, "_I... was... this... *close...* this time!_ Rufus buddy, you gotta remind me to touch some wood before saying stuff like that!"

"O-kay! O-kay!" whistled the naked mole rat, tugging on various wires. He sized up a rope like a fine-dining connoisseur and began sawing it energetically with his teeth.

"Rufus, no!" shouted Kim abruptly, "That's the–!"

The rope snicked apart, sending Ron thudding dully to the desert floor three feet below.

Kim sprang forward, scooped a whirling Rufus, and deposited him beside her. "...Main... support... brace..." she said, wincing. Kneeling down, she gave a winded, sandy Ron a shoulder up.

"Kim," he gasped double, coughing from the dust, "W-when... my next naco royalty check... comes in..., it will be Ron-san's honor... to buy us... an elevator!"

Giggling, Kim helped Ron brush off the rest of the dust as Simms thudded beside her. Letting his climbing harness crumple to the ground, the heavyset man wiped a reddened, sweating brow and cautiously scanned the quarry floor.

Ron moved away, and the atmosphere of the place buzzed Kim like a mosquito, urging her to swat, to do something, anything, to relieve it. The back of her neck prіckled uncomfortably. She pulled a magazine from a pouch to do something with her hands and had it halfway to the pistol butt before she paused and glanced at Simms. He nodded, and she shoved the rounds into her gun with a _ka-click_ that snapped in the silence. As if it was a signal, a clattering, clicking, and shuffling ran up and down the line as the squad shouldered weapons and locked in ammunition, faces draining of expression. Dr. Director advanced and silently shook hands with Simms, her single eye looking coolly down at Kim and her partner. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Kim thought she saw a flicker of warmth in the blue retina as it registered her and Ron before hardening back to professional detachment.

Jonathan had approached the blast door and scanned it with his PDA. He was now standing back and considering his foe with intense concentration. "Matt! Oliver!" he barked, "C'mere!"

They detached themselves from line. "Yessir?"

He handed them six matchbox-sized blocks of C4 explosive and a laser ruler. "Place theses where I say." He stepped back from the door. Facing it squarely, he bowed his head into his hand. He stood absolutely still, crushing his eyes shut in deep, quick thought. His face became more strained; his teeth gritted; Kim was surprised she didn't see smoke pouring from his ears. After about thirty seconds, he pointed toward the door, not raising his head or opening his eyes. "One... charge... out 3.2 inches... down 7.23 inches... from the left top corner," he said in a low, strained voice. Matt and Oliver hastily found the coordinates with the exacting laser tape, exposed off the self-sticking wrap on the rear of the charge, and slapped it on the cold steel. "One charge... 4.7 out... by 6.2 up... from the bottom left.... 4.31 by 8.01 from the top right... 5 – 5.6... b-by 3.9 from bottom left... and two... 2.16 inches from the center lock." The twins completed the last placement and he stood back, visibly white and drained. He gave himself a shake, gulped a swing from his canteen, and his color returned to normal.

Ben put a finger under Ron's open mouth and closed it. "I know it looks weird... It's like he scans the door mentally or some hookey like that... But damn, you should see the results. He could bring down a parking garage and not break a cup in a china shop a next door until he trips over the threshold... He was a wonder in the Gulf War II and a lifesaver in the North Korean assassina---" he broke off, looking guiltily flustered. "Uh... Y'all didn't hear that."

Kim smiled coyly. "Mum's the word..."

In front of them, Jonathan held up a hand for quiet. Kim noticed he unintentionally used the three-fingered BSA sign.

"O—kay," he said to the hush, "The way I've got it, the large charge in the middle will create a vacuumal shock vortex as the rest of the door shаtters. The low-pressure zone should propel pyroclastic material internally with high velocity in an lateral direction."

He finished, his words meeting the kind of silence that follows a demonstration of a particularly grueling math concept. Kim had lost him at "shock vortex." Matt raised his hand as if in class. "...And in English...?" he asked, gesturing imploringly with his hand.

"That hunk of metal is now one mother of a fragmentation grenade," Jonathan said shortly.

Matt smiled humorlessly. "_Now_ you're talkin' my lingo!"

A pall fell upon the group. They backed silently to the rocky wall. Johnson and Wilson in front with suppressant fire, then Kim with Ron to her back. Mr. Barkin slumped beside Ron, and Dr. Direction squeezed herself between the Lieutenant and the twins. Michaels fell in behind the two burly men, Ben behind him, with Simms rounding up the line in the rear. Jonathan drew a shining coil from a shirt pocket and spun a web of brassy silk from charge to charge until he had one wire left in his hand. He stepped back to the middle of the line and kneed. Pulling a gray object the size of a small flashlight out of a cargo pocket, he threaded the copper wire into one end and flicked off a translucent cap covering a red push-button on the other.

Kim's legs started to quiver, hard-run quiver, 100-meter-dash quiver, even though she was standing still. A hard edge, a sick edge, knifed though her stomach, the doom edge for a test unstudied, unprepared. _Thank God all I had for breakfast were those energy bars,_ she thought. A raw, musty, damp, animal odor swirled in her nostrils, smelling like air surrounding a stagnant, mossy stream. She could not place it, surprised she could even smell over the tumbleweeds bouncing across her tongue and panicky static flaring in her brain.

"OK!" shouted Jonathan, kneeling a foot from Kim. His face had blanched again. "I'm gonna count down from three. When I say, "Hit the dirt," I really, really mean it!"

"...Remember, once you're in," bellowed Simms from the rear, "Say together, get to cover and lay out suppressant. Matt, Oliver, bring out the rockets! Kim, get out of there as fast you can; we'll cover you! ...And for God's sake people, keep your damn heads down!" He gave a go-ahead signal to the demolitions expert.

"Three!" called Jonathan, now squatting with detonator grasped tightly.

Labored, heavy, rasping breathing. Hunching, softly clacking weapons held tight, bracing like football players in the gridiron. Time slowed, senses heightening. Kim felt Ron's moisture-laden exhale play around her ears. The back of expert marine Michael's brown neck was almost white; of what she could see his eyes were wide and bloodshot, his mouth wide open and panting. The raw, earthy smell surged again, hanging like a heavy cloud, smelling of perspiration and wet underarms. Kim realized what it was, the smell rising from her own pours. It was the reek of fear, the terror of certain hell, waiting, waiting, waiting.

_The wait is always worse than the action..._ she thought ruefully. _Funny, when I saw newsreels of D-Day in 20th Century history class, I always wondered what was running though the soldiers' minds in the landing crafts... The ones standing right behind the flat bow, hearing light caliber rounds ping and skeet of the sheetmetal, heavier rounds slicing though the thin steel, tearing apart the buddy beside them, the Higgins boat so packed that the dead could not fall. Rounds ripping up the water in front, knowing what they're going to meet when the ramp falls, men vomiting their guts out behind... Now I know... Now I know... nowIknownowIknow... I'm not made to be a soldier, not made to be a soldier, not made to be a soldier..._

"Ta-OOW!" The blonde's voice cracked.

Kim turned to Ron. He tightly clutched the rifle, too big for him, as the drowning man clings to a ring buoy, the composite grips gleaming wetly, blackly, where he had slid his oily, sweaty hands. His shock of golden hair jumped startlingly from a band of igneous rock behind him; it was too bright, too yellow, almost cartoonish, contrasting with a face gray as the cliff behind him. His eyes were just as glaring, bright white with only a contracted hazel dot in their centers. Rufus's florid pink was nowhere to be seen.

Their eyes locked. Kim wondered if her face mirrored his. He jerked his head an inch in recognition, left corner of his tightly pressed lips flecking upward. As if reading a sign of admittance, Kim rushed to him, melding her lips forcefully, deeply, passionately, with his. The unexpected force sent the back of his head thudding into the rock face a few inches behind him; he did not give inkling he cared. Closing his eyes, he returned the silky fire. Time hung as they kissed, passionately as their first one at the Junior Prom, perhaps for the last time on this earth. Kim mentally willed Jonathan not to utter the word now forming on his lips...

"...ONE!!" he screamed, smashing down the red detonator button and dropping flat to the ground in one motion. "HIT THE DECK!!"

Kim's world dissolved in a tremendous boiling roar.

She broke apart from Ron and spun, the scene moving in silent stop-action. Out from an opaque, rolling, ash-gray cloud obscuring the cliff sang a jagged piece of metal, zeroing in on her face as if personally selected. In what seemed like an eternity of snapshots, it slowly revolved, turning its greedy razor-edged lips toward her, thirsting for the warm blood pumping just beneath her neck. Reactively, she threw herself backward, halfway falling, almost in a bicycle kick, slowly arcing gracefully to the ground as if underwater; parallel to the shard, saw it skim over her body, slicing past an inch above her nose. She yanked Ron down by his shirt as she went. A blue-gray blur flashed over their heads, sighing angrily at missing its prey, embedding itself in the granite with a dull, sickening crack, precisely where Ron's head had been a split-second before.

As Kim hit the ground, the sound swirled back in a blasting howl of wind and grit. She pressed herself flat, flatter, flatter, clinging as if the ground threatened to rip away, as if she had claws. She screwed her eyes shut and twisted her head sideways from the explosion, feeling small grains of sand and metal sprinkle bright red glitter across her cheek and forehead. Larger chunks of rock and metal skimmed lethally over their heads. The wind flung her hair straight out behind her like a bonfire in a gale. Face crushed to the ground, Kim opened her mouth and screamed. Screamed to keep her eardrums from popping. Screamed to keep her sanity from popping. The blast tore the animal sound from her throat and screamed for her.

After another second that seemed to stretch years, the shockwave died. Kim laid flat on the ground, trembling slightly, the deafening blast still ringing in her ears. All at once, she heard Simms bellowing, voice cracking, "UP, UP, UP! LET'S GO! LET'S GO! LET'S GO-GO-GO!!!"

Ron hauled her up. Director, Ben, Mr. Barkin, Jonathan; all leapt to their feet. Kim snatched her gun, stomach tight; breath gasping. Licking parched lips with a tongue that held no moisture. Heart pumping ninety miles an hour. Thunder in her head - adrenaline ride. No fear anymore, only the burn of liquid fire flooding and pulsing through her veins, making her arms and fingers throb. Gun clasped in gloves bled through with salty sweat, hustling forward in front of Ron on legs that felt, weak, feverish, numb. She vaulted the ravaged lip of the once-whole entranceway, Oliver and Michaels rolling flash-bang grenades ahead of them. Shielding her eyes against illuminations brighter than the sun, she hurtled through a solid white smokescreen; weapon thrusting blindly, and burst out the other side into– dead silence. The rest of the team pounded out of the screen behind her like so many ghosts appearing from a fog and fanned; weapons leveled, ready. Kim's analytical, tactical fighter side took only a second to take in her surroundings.

They stood at one end of a gigantic atrium, sort of rock-hewn Great Hall, nearly 30 yards high. Naked light bulbs dangling by only by their power cords did nothing to illuminate the rough, dark ceiling, almost lost in the upper gloom. The equally rocky walls, lit by bare light bulbs placed roughly at fifteen-foot intervals, curved gently inward to form an arch at the top.

_It never changes... They love the high ceilings!_ thought Kim, flicking her eyes right. At 2 o'clock, halfway up the wall, just as Wade had said, was a small, rusting catwalk. A concrete ledge sticking from the wall served as a floor. Through the metal railings, she could see snatches of a wide, doorless entryway that presumably led into another section of the underground complex. A narrow, steep, fragile-looking metal staircase gave access to the platform. She scanned back to the floor. Various heavy doors led off the side of the hall; a particularly sturdy blast door was located directly below the platform. Two large entranceways were placed on the distance rear wall of the cavern. Mounds and hills of equipment lay scattered throughout the floor. Kim saw boxes, crates, and sandbags, even a dirty pickup truck or two. Weapons caches lay haphazardly scattered over several piles. Overall, the place gave Kim the impression of a very badly organized warehouse.

_Plop._

A wet splat squelched in the silence. Startled, Kim swung her eyes to center. A score of bareheaded men of Arabian descent sat clustered around a large metal table, eating lunch. Their turbans and weapons leaned beside them on the table. Currently they were staring as one, frozen, with shocked, nonplussed expressions, at the band of people who had just exploded through their supposedly impenetrable front door. One had even stopped with a sandwich halfway to his gaping mouth. Suspended, it slowly oozed its toppings and condiments onto the floor. The stunned silence held for a second, American staring at Middle Eastern and Middle Eastern staring at American. Then in one smooth, practiced, expert move, the terrorists flipped over the table, sending plates, utensils, and "lunchage" flying, slammed on headdresses, spun, and grabbed their assault weapons. A defensive line had been set up in a matter of seconds.  
_  
Chock-Chock-Ch-Ch-Choc-Choc._

One AK-47 opened up. Another. Another. Johnson, standing directly in front of Kim, let out a strangled yell and jerked backward. A bullet slammed into his left arm and he spun round. Kim saw five, six, more, crimson roses now blooming in his chest. Writhing grotesquely as more rounds slammed into his back, his legs gave out and he crumpled, screaming "MEDIC!" as he hit the floor.

Petrified, Kim watched him kick on the floor, a blank white scream flooding her brain, eyes wide as hubcaps. She wanted to help, do something, but everything was frozen; rooted to the spot, she passively let bullets snick up the concrete floor around her. She sensed a breath of approaching motion and suddenly something heavy bull into her from behind; she was falling; she was sliding, her assailant riding above her on her back, yelling in her ear, "Get down, Kim, goddammit, get down!" They skidded into the lee of a large, sturdy mound where the rest of the team had taken cover, and her lifesaver tumbled off. It was Ron. He leaned over the parapet of their cover and fired off a few rounds of suppressant as Kim clambered to her feet. With a grunt, Mr. Barkin threw himself flat on the pile beside them and immediately started to set up the heavy machine gun. The rest of the team advanced forward, firing, Wilson's and Michaels's M4's belching off grenades.

"Jesus... Thanks Ron!" she yelled over the din of gunfire. "I... I soo dunno what came over me... I just... froze."

The blonde broke off firing and leaned down to her. "No big... Oh! I've always wanted to say that...it tickles! ...Anyway, you saved me back there from getting a new Naco-eating hole... in my forehead. I'd say that just about covers your Christmas present debt!" Kim laughed. "...By the way, you're a lot softer ride than Mr. Dr. P's rocket sled!"

Kim shot him a wry look, rubbed her chest, and grimaced. "Tell that to my boobs!"

"Oy! Heads up, you two!" yelled Dr. Director, breaking their conversation and jerking her thumb at Matt and Oliver. Matt had hoisted the Javelin barrel onto his shoulder and was sighting in the computer.

"Got it!" he shouted, "Jonathan – it's that rock support column just above the far left door, hundred meters out, right?!"

"Yeah!" the older blonde yelled back, checking his PDA.

Oliver, kneeling at the other end of the barrel, rammed the projectile home and twisted down and away, plugging his ears as he did so. "Clear!"

Matt pulled back on the trigger. With a hollow, schloooping sound, a white missile flew smokelessly out of the barrel and over the pile. After dropping for a second, the rocket motor ignited, sending the Javelin hurling into the far wall. Kim and Ron threw themselves against the bunker wall as the warhead exploded. A blast nearly rattled their teeth out and a bright-as-the-sun flash lit up the facing wall. Screams and yells followed. The air momentarily sucked from Kim's lungs as the fireball ate up the oxygen, then rushed back, clogged with dust and smoke. As she took a step away from the berm, she heard a frenzied yell directly behind her. Spinning, she came nearly face-to-face with an al-Qaeda fighter attempting to breech the wall. He looked at her in slight surprise, but then started swinging down the rifle slung over his back during the climb. Kim automatically raised her .40 and fired. A gurgling, bubbling scream; the fighter tumbled backward, clutching his throat, shot through the neck.

Energized by adrenaline shock, Kim wheeled and started firing blindly, one-handed, at the flashing battle line across the hall. Ducking in between golden ribbons of tracers, she rattled off slugs, experiencing a disconcerting primal glee whenever she saw a fighter crumple.

_Shiiiizzznit, what... is... happening... to... me?!! _she thought, quietly appalled, as tracers tore by her. She saw a defender stand straight up on top of the terrorist's barricade in the final stages of arming an RPG, solidly aiming at her forces, silhouetted against the gray rock wall behind him. _Errrgg... too late to think 'bout that now, though!_

Kim swung her handgun on target. Blocking out the cacophonic rattle-rattle of automatics from both sides, she glared down the barrel and fired. An animal yell of triumph surged forward as she watched him twist and fall, but was quickly cut short when he inadvertently launched the RPG, sending a shrieking diagonally across the room. Kim snapped her head to follow it and watched it collide solidly with the ladder extending to the second floor platform. The lower half disintegrated in a fling of shrapnel, and in a grinding screech of tearing metal, the upper section slowly broke loose and crashed to the concrete floor.

Kim slapped a gloved hand to her mouth, mortified.

Dr. Director slowly turned her gazed from the destroyed stairway to Kim, sighed, and shot the redhead a single flat, exasperated glare.

Furiously, Kim turned to fire again and came face-to-face with fighter in a yellow turban leering down at her from the top of the mound, pointing at her a bayonet lashed to his AK-47 with a piece of dirty, hairy twine. He had wriggled to their side underneath a carpet of bullets.  
With a yelp, she swung the gun to aim between his eyeballs and pulled the trigger.

_Click._

She stared aghast at the gun in her hand and dumbfoundedly pulled the trigger again.

_Click. Click. Click. _

The empty magazine clanked at her feet.

With a frenzied, triumphant yell, the man leapt down the wall to her level and advanced on her, bayonet knife thrusting. Kim took several quick, terrified steps backward, tripped over a box that had fallen off the pile behind her, and sprawled. Rolling over, she saw the man standing directly over her, a crazed gleam in his eye, a cackle in his throat. He reared the gun back over his head for the strike, Kim saw his eyes aim for the middle of her chest, saw the knife point gleam and flash and begin to descend –

A deep, wet crack resounded behind them. Her would-be killer froze with the knife raised, a snarl etched on his features. Then his face softened, his eyes rolled up into his head, leaving only slimly white spheres, his legs quivered, and he slowly toppled across Kim, his dirty teeth cracking against her forehead as he went. The gun slid from his hands as he fell. With a dull thunk, it landed upright on the bayonet and stuck there, quivering, two inches from Kim's left eye. She took a long sideways glance at her reflection in the steel and then looked up. Ron was standing in front of her, snarl on his face, holding his M4 backwards by the muzzle as if in the follow-through of swinging a baseball bat. A fresh crimson stain gleamed on the rifle butt. His expression softened as he remembered Kim and pulled her to her feet.

"So, I guess, um, saving you is one way to spread a little Ron-shine."

"Right back at'cha, Brainswitch Boy!"

Ron laughed, remembering the old nickname. "Hooo boy, that was weird. And to tell you the truth-" he broke off, eyes widening as they fixed on something over Kim's shoulder. "—we might want to be imitating Rufus _right about now!_"

He dived for the ground, Kim following him on trust. Immediately afterward, an RPG round sliced above the makeshift foxhole and slammed into the near wall. Another tawny blast and suck of air followed, but this time accompanied with a heat wave; Kim smelt the edges of her hair searing. _Do they have ANY idea how hard it is to pay tuition *and* keep your bangs in at least presentable order?!_ The rat-tat-tatting tempo of fire directed toward them increased. The team had broken into roughly two parts. Matt, Oliver, Ben, and Wilson had grouped in the lee of one large pile. Dr. Director, Mr. Barkin, Jonathan, Michaels, Simms, Kim, and Ron had gathered under a larger one, separated by a gap of roughly twelve feet. Kim looked up. Crisscrossing frenetically over their heads flew a hundred tracer comets, shredding the air with the sound of ripping wet canvas. All around them lead pinged and whizzed, skipping off the floor and their cover with the twang of ricochet. shаttering glass; cracking wood; a bronze streak exploded out of the conglomerate of the pile, six inches below Kim's arm. Seconds later, a second ripped through the rubble between her and Dr. Director's head. They quickly cast each other wide-eyed looks. Over the frenzy, a yell; Ben went down, clutching his thigh. Simms ripped a walkie-talkie from his belt and peered at the other half of the team across the veritable waterway of glowing rounds. "This is th' Gunny...! You alright, son!?" he shouted, anxiety-stricken, into the walkie.

"Y-yeah," floated back a strained, tight voice. "I – ahhhh! – ahh – ah – I think it's getting a bit hot in here, though."

Kim pulled out the Kimmunicator. Reaching into her backpack and popping open a tube of pink stiki-gloss, she put a blob on the bottom of the PDA and stuck it to the side of her gun. "Be my eyes, Wade!" she yelled, extending her gun above her head and over the wall, firing sideways. When the magazine ejected, she yanked the impromptu seeing-eye weapon back down.

"There's more in here than I predicted!" Wade said, typing furiously. "The Javelin round only weakened the rear doors; didn't bring them down. Musta called in reinforcements with walkie-talkies."

"Remember how you said you could crash the wireless network with your eyes closed?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, start sleepwalking!"

"I'm on it, Kim!"

The black boy started pounding on his computers as another RPG round screamed over and exploded into the rear wall, sending rock fragments slicing lethally through the air. A bright orange fireball crawled up the rock and rolled weirdly across the ceiling in a sheet. The team fell flat, covering their heads with their hands. As the scorching wind died, Simms crawled over the wreckage to Kim.

"How you doin'?" he yelled over the din.

"Explosions, flying projectiles, mass chaos... they're giving the Tweebs a healthy run for their money!" she yelled back with a smile.

Another RPG arced across their barrier. In the ensuing thundering blast, Kim saw, for the first time, a true haunt of fear in Simms's eyes. The harsh fiery light caught the strain on his features in sharp relief. Simms put a heavy hand on her thin shoulder. "Kim!" he said a few inches from her face, "This is getting too dangerous! You've got to get out of here _now_! We'll put down suppressant thick enough for those assholes to _walk_ on."

She looked around at her fellow hunkered teammates, Mr. Barkin, Dr. Director, Simms, and lastly, Ron. "But... but... I can't just leave you guys!"

Ron put an arm around her waist. "Kim, ya gotta go! You can't stay here; not before you show that bastard what happens when he gets the Kim Factor tweaked! ...Besides..." he smiled, "My grade-sized ego dictates that you will never hear the end of my duo muy bueno rescues of you unless you do something to top it!"

Kim laughed, looked far into his hazel eyes for a long moment, and gave him a deep hug. "Take care of yourself..." she whispered into his ear. "Somebody's gotta buy Rufus is nachos."

"Right back at you, K.P... Hey, and I'll have you know, the little guy goes through a week of my allowance in three orders!"

Kim giggled, broke apart, slowly pulled out her grappling gun, and turned to Simms. "Let's do this thing."

"Right," said Simms, nodding tersely. "Since, well, you destroyed the main way out of this hellhole, you'll obviously have to use your grappler. Quicker, yeah, but it will leave you more vulnerable to fire while in the air. Get up there and away as fast as you can." He grabbed his walkie-talkie. "Okay, everybody, the Phoenix is leaving the Hornet's Nest! Repeat, the Phoenix is leaving the Hornet's Nest! On my count...!" He learned quickly back to Kim. "Ready?"

She fiddled with the time-release knob on the grappler, moving it forward, hearing bullets shаttering and tinkling on the front of their bulwark, and faintly nodded.

"All right; open up on my count!" he said in the walkie-talkie. "Wilson, Michaels, pop over some pineapples when I count to two... everyone else –" he broke off as bullet skimmed by his boot, "–Whoa! – open up on three!"

The radios crackled back in confirmation.

"OK!" he shouted. "...One! ...Two...!"

The surviving Blackwater ops canted their rifles and sent two grenades blasting toward enemy lines.

"THREE!!"

As one, the commandos exploded over the mound's lip and blurred the room with points of light just as the two grenades detonated. Mr. Barkin's jammed his Vietnam-era steel pot firmly on his head and skewed his automatic from left to right on its bipod. The heavy machine gun wracked boomingly, sending large, deliberate bolts of orange-gold belching from the muzzle. Kim stood up hastily as blazes streaked and crisscrossed over and around her, found a mark on the wall, and leveled the chunky grappler. As she held her breath to fire, a speeding round sliced across her forehead. She yelled and dropped her aim. Gritting her teeth against the searing pain and, seconds later, blood, she leveled again and fired. After seeing the hook slam home, she dropped to one knee and held a palm to her brow, gasping slightly at the contact. Warm, sticky liquid quickly ran down the sides of her nose and around the edges of her eyes.

Simms looked around distractedly as her red hair disappeared from the corner of his eye. "Kim?" He saw blood. "...Kim!?" He broke off from the fight and kneeled beside her, prizing away her hand. "Good God!" He whipped a towelette from a belt first-aid kit and wiped away the smeared red coating. "...Gusher, there. Not too deep, though... Hold still." He lifted a small jar of the same sugary substance he had given Kim and tilted her head back. "This might hurt a little..." He sprinkled the white, granular substance directly on the wound.

It bit hard. Kim yelled as a white-hot wire seared into her forehead; tried to twist away. Simms grabbed her roughly by the chin and held her in a vice grip for a full ten seconds, then let go. Kim brought a hand to her brow. The fresh wound was now a thick, sugary scab. She rubbed it, and it crumbled into a clot no bigger than a knife cut.

Simms helped her to her feet. "That's the same QuikClot stuff I gave you." He then pointed to the still-trembling grappler line and gave her a light, friendly smack on the rear. "Now get going, dammit!"

Simms spun his M-16 back to firing position with the precision of a drill rifleman. Kim wrapped her arms tightly around her grappler and punched the "recoil" button. Instantly the grappler yanked her forward, and she ramped up the sloping pile and sailed steeply upward through the air. Halfway across, a foreign voice some distance yelled angrily in surprise. A barrage of fiery lines swung in her direction.

Behind her, she heard a hollow _ssslooop...._ followed by a shrieking _Whheeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiii!_ A blast of light in the corner of her vision, smoke, dying screams, and a sharp reduction of bullets flying in her direction told her another Javelin had done its work.

Miraculously, she reached the catwalk unscathed, flipped herself over its edge, half-tumbling, half-rolling until she was directly below the hook's strike point. Wrenching the concrete-piercing barb out of the wall, she recalled the last few feet of cord and threw herself flat, scrabbling desperately along a concrete pad that suddenly stretched for miles. Bullets clanged and rang hollowly off the metal railing, sending sharp, hot fragments flying erratically across her back and shoulders. They caught and pulled at her clothing. Her old cotton things would have torn to rags in seconds, but the thin Kevlar took the knife-edged bits with a sound like a zipper closing. A thin, lighter track in the black followed as the stitching unwove slightly.

Assault rifles turned, aiming toward her face, firing up at her. They rattled and kacked, a cacophony melding and melting, their profiles almost hidden behind yellow-white flashes. Her toe caught in a pithole; she lunged forward, half-falling, now belly flat to the concrete, hands splayed; a large slug impacted directly between her Y-ed index and middle and disintegrated, shredding the Gore-Tex glove and leaving tiny cuts on her fingers. Solid, unbroken traces of light sliced past her vision, skimming her hair, leaving spiderweb craters in the wall to her right. Bullets scooted upward between the floor pad and lowest railing, ricocheted off the low ceiling pad above the platform, and hurled back down at random angles. One grazed the skin of her right forearm, drawing blood; she did not care; did not feel it.

After an eternity, she reached the lip of the second story passageway, whipped herself around the corner, and crawled down the cool, dark protection of the twelve-foot-wide hallway. After wriggling about fifty feet, Kim collapsed against the wall, hugging her knees, panting. Her ragged breathing was loud in the relative silence; yard-thick walls blocked out the sound of battle. Only muffled, random, crump-crumping explosions and distant yelling floated to her. Her heart slowed. The smart of her cut arm seeped inward on her thoughts, followed by a new pain in her left thigh – dull, throbbing. She lifted away her hand from around her drawn-up legs to reveal a small, horizontal rip in the kaki fabric.

_Must have bashed my leg on the platform on the way up,_ she thought, withdrawing an amber bottle from a side pouch of her backpack. Unscrewing the top with her teeth, she tilted her head back and slammed down two aspirin. She then wincingly scrunched up her pant leg, ruffled through her gear belt, and withdrew a packet of QuikClot and a chitosan bandage. Nicking open the ketchup-packet-sized dose of QuikClot with her front teeth, she dumped the entire contents into slash in her foreleg and plastered the bandage overtop. Her breath whistled sharply in her teeth and eyes widened as burning pain crackled along the wound. Kim laid her grappler across her lap and bowed her head. She waited for the painkiller to filter through her body, pulling deep, slow breaths.

Great Hall, West Side

Kasheme al-Budvark yanked his head down under a web of American bullets. He pressed himself tightly to his gravel bulwark, panting shallowly. He rolled his eyes until they hurt, looking upward and back at the edge of his cover. Large, tepid balls of sweat rolled down inside his turban. His left hand scrabbled at his side, questing blindly for another magazine. Feeling his ammunition belt, he ripped open a canvas pouch and wrenched out a boxy casing, prying up a few fingernails in his violent haste. Jamming it into his AK-47, he sputtered half a magazine at the invaders across the hall before a return wave of gunfire forced him to duck.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a puff of white smoke, different from the black and brown eddying around him, rise up behind the enemy lines. Something small and black burrowed into the side wall. About thirty seconds later, an unmistakable flash of red, black, and green soared through the air. Just as Kasheme had been dreading. No show of bullying infidel imperialism would be complete without that indecent skin-bearing hussy.

"Hey!" he yelled, pointing. Several of his fellow crusaders eagerly opened fire on the flying body. The man who brought down Kim Possible was assured two extra virgins in the Hereafter. A second later, a sharp _Whheeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiii!_ filled his ears, followed by an explosion that lifted him off his feet. When he opened his eyes, he lay surrounded by ripped-open comrades. A large, smoking hole gaped in the barricade to his right.

Swearing with grief, he threw himself into a more protected position and lifted out his walkie talkie. "Osama," he began, "We're being invaded! _Kim Possible_ is here –" He broke off, realized he was talking to a static hiss.

_Shit... Must've busted in the explosion._

He threw it down disgustedly and tried some of his neighbors, squeamishly wiping congealing blood off the mouthpieces. They too were useless. He scanned the hall frantically for another sort of inter-base communication. His eyes picked up their last hope: an intercom mounted to the left wall under the platform to the high-ranking quarters. Setting his teeth, he charged through a hail of shrapnel and bullets, expertly rolling and diving, putting his years of Taliban training to the test. Just before the upper platform became obscured by its floor as he dived below it, he saw a flash of red hair disappear behind a main doorway. He arrived at the light tan speaker box with clothing shredded and hands bleeding, but with face triumphant, and lifted the black phone club. "Osama! This is al-Budvark!"

He squashed himself into the lee of a doorway as another smattering of bullets crinkled past. When they let up from his position, he resumed his transmission.

"Leader, we are under a surprise attack by an American strike force... Send in reinforcements!"

He winced as the results of a bungled amputation filtered above the noise.

"Worse yet, O Great One, they've brought Kim Possible with them...! Prophet Muhammad (may He live forever!) smiled not; your missile of retribution didn't work! She's in corridor 36-B as I speak. If you send reserves from Sector 3 now, they should deal with her... with her...... easily..."

He trailed off helplessly, realizing the bullet sweep that made him duck had also sliced the phone cord cleanly in two.

Great Hall, East Side

Through the pain in his leg, Ben's eagle eyes picked up a repetitive motion across the hall. _If I didn't know better, it looks like somebody's trying to make a break for it._

"Hey, Director!" he yelled hoarsely down the battle line. "Bung me those 'nocs!"

Dr. Director deftly tossed him the binoculars Kim had left behind. He peered through. "Well, I'll be damned... Oliver, look at this!"

The grunt took the lenses. "The little sunahvabitch looks like he's trying to make a phone call!" He turned to Michaels. "Light him up!"

_Shloop!_ A grenade arched through the air.

Great Hall, West Side

The second explosion just as many minutes sent Kasheme flying on his back. When the world stopped spinning, he could not feel his legs. He looked down.

There were none.

They disappeared beneath a large stone shifted by the blast.

He was trapped.

There was no pain. After a brief, futile struggle, he flopped back against the wall. His body felt shelllike. Devoid of emotion.

Great Hall, East Side

"Sir, I still see movement...!"

"Michaels, fire two!"

_...Shloop!_

Great Hall, West Side

Kasheme saw close friends who had been trying to free him scatter away. He twisted his head left and right.

_Odd... what's that about?_ he thought detachedly, almost bored.

He looked up. An arcing grenade was zeroing in, directly between his eyes.

_Drat. And I promised little Kia'na I'd fix her bike..._

Corridor 36-B

Kim looked up from her bandaging as two nearly simultaneous explosions detonated directly in front of the opening. Instead of dampening the sound, the thick walls channeled it, forcing her to clamp her gloves over her ears. A geyser of flame shot upward from below the platform and upward out of view; the intense light momentarily bleached the corridor and her body white. Squinting, she saw that the flame contained small black bits that looked grotesquely like human body parts.

"Ewwww…"

Giving her head a small shake, Kim turned to pick up her grappler. As she did so, another dry salvo of gunfire chattered behind her, followed by a loud, strangled shout. She whipped around, frozen.

Seconds later, she heard her longtime teacher screaming, "It's gonna take more than a bullet to stop Mr. Steve Barkin! …aaaaaAAAARRRAAHHHHH…!" His war cry disappeared beneath the thunder of his gun, and the sounds of battle faded away again.

Kim half-opened her mouth, unconsciously reaching forward into the darkness to give aid. She slowly let her hand drop, biting her lip, torn between her friends and her duty.

She glanced at the seconds ticking by on her watch and realized she was wasting time. Grunting to her feet, she quickly swung on her backpack. Ruffling with the straps, she strode deeper into the complex to drown out the sounds of fighting behind her. Whispering along at a light jog, she looked down at her grappler to twiddle the time release forward. Satisfied, she slinked quietly down the corridor, oiled around the corner of a blind T-intersection at the end of the hall –

And walked slam-bang into a fighter hurrying in the opposite direction.

They lurched apart, Kim holding her sides. She looked up. Both her and the new man's eyes met at the same moment, and their quick, sharp intakes of breath combined. They registered each other in stunned silence for a long, long heartbeat. Then the man's hand plunged to a Glock at his hip. Kim's eyes snapped downward to follow it, and without thinking she raised her right arm.

At such close range, the hook never had time to spring open. It drilled straight through the robed man a foot from her and exploded out the other side, spraying intestines and chunks of spine against the opposite wall. Momentum spent, the claw opened, hung in the air for a moment, and clattered metallically to the floor.

The eyes of al-Qaeda fighter remained locked on her face. Then he blinked and looked down in surprise at how he had suddenly jumped forward in the alphabet from an i to an o. He panned back to stare at Kim, his color draining. His mouth twitched slightly, and with a small, pained gurgle, slowly toppled sideways, face frozen in a mixture of shock and agony. Behind him, his guts slid down the wall with a wet squelch.

The grappler tumbled from Kim's nerveless fingers. She stared in horror at the man stiffening in his own growing pool of stunning red blood. Her mind jammed onto a stunned scream echoing and repeating over and over and over again in her skull.

When she closed her eyes to block out the gore, it seared on the inside of her lids, as clear as if they had burned off. Feeling a heave to her stomach, she lurched to the near wall and supported herself with a trembling hand.

_OhmygodOhmygod… I'm not gonna sick… I'm not gonna sick... OhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygod Ohmygod…!_

Kim retched, doubling over. The acrid taste of vomit burned in her mouth. With difficulty she choked it down. Kim leaned against the wall, feeling as if she had a high fever. Her pulse raced quick, shallow; face pale and clammy from shock and sweat. She dry-heaved once, twice, three times before staggering back up again.

"Oh… God… Oh… God… N-no breakfast… Good thing…"

She raised an arm to wipe her forehead. The sleeve came back damp. _Pull yourself together!_ she thought through gritted teeth. _Remember what that Tibetan monk said… "Assume the Lotus Blossom."_ She closed her eyes, and the scene before her and a distant explosion faded away. She relaxed, her body feeling almost weightless. She mediated deeper, and it gently opened like an orchid at the light of dawn. After a few minutes, she opened her eyes. Her body was calm. She was back in control. Reaching into her backpack, she pulled out a small, slender black tube and deftly screwed the silencer into the threaded barrel of her gun. She bent down to retrieve the grappler. A millisecond later, she was flat against the wall, heart pounding. Roughly half of the black rope was tinted dull, sticky red… and she didn't want to think about what she'd have to do to get the hook back.

Glancing up, she looked directly onto the eyes of the man she had just killed. They were still open. Kim froze on the spot as if she had just received a giant electric shock.

Without a second glance at the mutilated body, she turned and fled down the corridor.

Corridor 15-B  
10:33 AM

To be continued….


	11. Five Rounds Rapid

**11. Five Rounds Rapid**

Corridor 52-B  
10:44 AM

"...Point me," a low voice hissed. The Kimmunicator's screen fuzzed as it strained to pick up a faint GPS signal. After about fifteen seconds, far longer than normal, the onscreen map attained a lock on her position. Several seconds more, and the right-hand path of an upcoming intersection blinked dimly.

Kim Possible now crept though the bowls of al-Qaeda's bunker-mountain. She slid the Kimmunicator into her back pocket, smoothly scanned her eyes from left to right, and whispered away from her position glued in the dark shadows of the wall. Her movement caused the floor beneath her feet to _tamp_ slightly; she gasped quietly and pulled her foot back as if she had almost triggered a sensor. In reality, she walked on metal plating. Rough, dark rock walls had given way to barren, rigidly square hallways plated all in brushed steel.

_Erruug, talk about a Feng-shui disaster! You can way tell a guy did this…_

Kim bit her lip and adopted a more flowing, gliding step. Mentally thanking Wade for the soft rubber in her soles, she tried to tuck her bright auburn swath of hair out of sight.

_Maybe I should get my hair cut… Something neck-length might be a bit of an adventure…_ She paused for a moment to toy with her hair, pushing it to around her shoulder blades, before snapping back to the task at hand.

A strip of harsh, flat fluorescent lighting ran down the center of the hallway. Not that it did much good at actual illumination; every third or forth light was out, giving Kim ample space to hide. The rest crackled and flickered, humming ethereally.

_Too busy out killing to replace a few lightbulbs?_

She reached the intersection and melded into the wall. Arms spread out to their maximum at her sides, palms flat against the wall, grasping the gun in left hand. Her legs solid bent fluid; breathing light, quick. She strained her eyes right, almost trying to X-ray through the perfect 90-degree corner just beyond the fingers of her right hand. Listening. There was nothing. Just like at the past six intersections.

_Spin right? Edge around? Spin… fastandfluid… need lots of recover time. …Open…. Farfromthewall. Edge… edge… slowandquiet. Shhh quiet. Asians see the gun. Know me coming. Me dead. Edgeorspin? Edge. Spin. Spin. Edge. Spin. Spin. SPIN!_

In one motion, she swung the gun in her left hand to bring it into firing hold with her right, her legs moving liquid. She whirled low around the corner, legs crouched and braced, the gun pointed deadly in front of her. Her long firetail of hair accentuated the blinding sweep and finished her wave of motion, its tip gently kissing the bare skin of her left arm before flowing back.

Nothing. She held her battle position another second before she realized the only thing she threatened was silent air. Kim rose slowly, hands breaking apart, and the gun again slid down to relax at her hip. The adrenaline high slowed to a trickle, leaving her shivery and edged.

_This lack of contact is really getting to me,_ she thought as she slunk back to the shadowy wall. _Hitchcock, you had this terror trick nailed._ Kim blinked, trying to clear her mind. Instantly the vision came to her, throbbing with the beat of her heart. The slow draw, the impact, the stunned stare… She shivered and opened her eyes.

_Shell shock, Isle 9, next to the goldfish…_

She moved on, cautiously, with a litheness that showed the mark of an expert. Her breathing echoed off the barren walls to mock her fear, punctuated by the gentle tamp-tamp of her feet. The incessant, hair-prickling mosquito buzz of the faulty fluorescents pushed her already-jangly nerves to the breaking point.

So when the Kimmunicator's ring tone blasted out of her rear pocket, she yelped and jumped nearly a foot into the air. Hastily biting a glove to cut off the yell, she flashed into a dim patch of wall. With a heart rate at truly hypersonic speeds, she klicked on her device. "Sweet _Jesus_, Wade!"

"Ahh! I'm so sorry, Kim; your vitals just went through the roof!" Wade said apologetically. His voice and video crackled and jumped strangely.

"So not the dram – hey, wait a minute… How do _you_ have my vitals?"

"Electrodes woven in your clothing. But that's not important right now," he said hastily. "I'm going to up-power the Kimmunicator's transmission satellites. The bedrock is blocking my signal."

"More bars in more places, huh?" she said dryly. "Any idea why I haven't met anybody yet? The strain's playing hacky-sack with my nerves."

Wade pondered his screens thoughtfully. His face wavered with the weakened signal. "I dunno… I guess they're all down in the Great Hall fighting us. My scans picked up a large bogey force diagonally of you by several floors, but I haven't been able to update recently. Your depth and some unexpected high-level cloud cover prevent me from bringing out the high-gain scanner until I transfer to the more powerful signal. Making the switch'll cut me off for several minutes. I'm sorry."

"No big, I guess…. Kim out." She patted the Kimmunicator into her pocket and unpasted herself from her hiding place. After the conversation and the comforting sound of her own voice, the sudden silence roared in her ears. It pounded on her as she inched forward to a second intersection.

_It's quiet… too qui—Aaack!_ She broke off and mentally slapped herself. _No, no, no, not the quiet line! That cheesy action movie staple has doomed almost as many extras as "Well, it can't get any worse than this!"_

Her attention was snapped forward as her taught senses, at last, picked up a sound that wasn't her own. Boots. Ahead of her. Around the corner. And they weren't bothering to keep it down.

Kim flowed into the darkest stretch of wall she could find and gave Major Edward A. Murphy a deadpan look.

…_And it never fails…_

She slowly groped backward until she felt cold steel trace against her spine. Her tension suddenly cleared like birds after a shotgun blast. Battle blood now flowed through her, deepening her breathing and infixing her muscles with steel. She quietly dropped to a half-crouch, delicately balancing on the balls of her feet. She angled toward the intersection slightly to maintain trim. Flattening her upper body to the wall, she swept her arms to the sides in a gentle upward curve instead of the standard "T" to break up the traditional outline of her body. Her hair folded and parted gracefully over her left shoulder and hung there, a thin curtain falling over the left corner of her vision. The inside line of her body flowed almost unbroken from the tip of her right-hand fingers, swooped an inverted c down her torso and upper leg, and dropped straight to the floor after the knee.

_Be liquid rock… liquid rock liquid rock liquidrockliquidrock,_ she thought against a quiver in her thigh as she fought to maintain the exhausting position.

Tac…! Tac…! Tac...! Heavy boots thudded off the metal floor, drawing closer.

_He's walking heel-toe, heel-toe,_ the back of her mind informed her like an overenthusiastic tour guide, _Slight favor to his right foot. A swaggering sonahva', too. I wish he would hurry up; my legs are getting sore…_

…Tac! Tac! TAC!

With a final hobnailed footstep, he swung around the corner. Kim froze solid and held her tongue between her teeth. From her lowered position, she assessed him from the bottom up. Worn desert-toned cargos spilled from shin-length boots. Light gray Bedouin robes billowed sloppily out of the belted waistband of his pants. Overtop the robe rode an olive vest; Kim was unsure if it was bulletproof or not. His head was uncovered. A close, dense black beard softened the lines of a weathered, hamlike face and short, bent nose. Deep crinkles around his eyes accentuated a self-confident smirk of a smile. He reeked of tobacco smoke. The smirk and bullying swagger probably stemmed from the large, beefy machine gun, a Russian-made RPK, he cradled between his hands.

_Note to self: Find cure for testosterone poisoning._

With a shock of horror, Kim realized her once-useful khakis now screamed violently from the dark shadow and gray behind her. All he would have to do would was look down and…

_I wish I was in Ron's pants!_ she thought frantically.

A pause.

_Wait a minute, that didn't come out right… _

He was six feet, three feet, two feet from her, still not looking down.

_Gonnaseemegonnaseemegonnaseemegonnaseeme…_

He was level. Kim held her breath and warred with herself to stay still motionless. A band of sweat popped out on her forehead from the effort. One large silver bead detached and trickled down the center of her brow and along the bridge of her nose. She fought to keep herself from wriggling . It hovered a liquid diamond at the very tip of her nose, almost as if to taunt her into sneezing. It then loosened itself and began to fall. Realizing even the gentle _pip_ of liquid hitting floor could make the fighter turn, she stuck out her tongue and caught it as it fell. She glanced up. The man's shadow fell over her.

He was a foot from her, he was past her, his back was to her, he was several strides from her.

_Why didn't he turn? He will. He will. He'sgonnaturngonnaturnturnturnturn…_

Six feet from her, he suddenly stopped dead.

_OHcrapohcrapohcrap, hedidseeme!_

His hand drifted to a large bulge in his side pocket.

Kim cast a final, fleeting thought to the gun in her hand. _Maybe I could plug him with his back turned? No good… dunno if the jacket's bulletproof. Anyway, he'll hear the noise, turn, and unload that machine gun or the pistol he's reaching for before I can say holy f-_

He pulled out a white box of cigarettes. Lighting one with a pocket Bic, he took a long pull until the tip glowed bright red. Exhaling satisfiedly, he filled the hall with an acrid stench.

The redhead's nose twitched hard. _Oh, now __**this**__ is just too great…! Who does this guy think he is, Solid Snake?! _she thought angrily against a force building inside her windpipe.

Kim's body did only three things that she could not explain. The first was an strange, inexplicable nausea around the fumes of rubbing alcohol. The second, two violent sneezes in quick succession immediately following someone lighting up. After that first reaction, she had no problem with the smoke. As for the third symptom… She still worried how serious her father had been about the deep-space probe.

The al-Qaeda fighter stood puffing for about thirty seconds. Kim started to see spots on her vision as bad air triggers fired in her brain from lack of oxygen. Her eyes watered from the smoke, She felt her lungs would rip apart from the inside out if she had to hold in the sneezes any longer… With a final _pwhat_ of exhale, the fighter carelessly tossed the glowing butt of his spent cig over his shoulder. The burning tip hit the wall just below the bare skin of Kim's arm and crumpled to the floor as a stick of ash. He readjusted his hold on his gun, and his boots tac-taced down the hall. He turned a far corner, and he was gone.

Kim waited another second until the silence became complete before she collapsed. From her hands and knees, the two double sneezes exploded out of her, wrenching her to an almost upright position before letting her fall back down. She trembled on her knees with her eyes closed for more than a minute, pulling deep, gasping breaths. Oxygen flooded back to her brain. Her legs, her arms, her whole body felt weak and shaky after the massive strain. Panting like a near-drowning victim, she wobbled to her feet.

_Ooo-kaaay, so that takes "close encounter" to a whole new level…_

Checking her six, she slipped around the corner. This hallway was dark. Only a handful of lights still worked along the hundred-yard stretch. The rest showed signs of drunken revelry; she saw electrical wiring dangling through bullet holes. Kim slowed cautiously, holding the gun questingly in front of her.

_Don't stop, gotta keep moving…_

In the middle, the light faded to dusky twilight, fed only by the illuminated corridors at each end. Kim moved away from the wall. No need to inch along in shadows when the entire walkway was full of them. At about 75 yards, the light and dark swirled together to form a sort of anitlight, neither illuminating nor shadowing. It reminded Kim strangely of deep-sea dives she had led. _This is U-boat light,_ she thought, remembering her foray into the North Atlantic and her research about U-529. _This is the light their hulls were made for… back when wolfpacks went in for the kill…_

The slightest breath of a sound behind her cut short the opening scenes of _Das Boot_ beginning to play in her head. She froze and twisted around. Visual faded into the gloom after a few feet. There was nothing there.

_You're letting it play you, Kim,_ she thought as she resumed skulking. _Little white noises don't make this big girl come apart…_

A whiff of cigarette smoke.

Kim's brain made the command to turn around. Her body never got the chance. She felt something close like a vice on the flowing tail of her hair and she was wrenched backward, her scalp screaming from every hair root.

_Shitshitshitshitshit!Allaboutshit! Forgotthesix! Forgotthesix! Where the hell did he come from?!_

In one quick motion, the ham-faced cigarette man pinned her against his chest, wrestled her into a chokehold, and wrenched her arm painfully up and back, forcing her to drop the gun. It clattered to the floor and her attacker kicked it away.

_"Maybe I should get my hair cut"… make that definitely!_

A gleaming Ka-bar flashed coldly to her throat.

_Shhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiittttt!_

---------

A second passed, the silence broken by his pants of triumph. "I knew I sawgh somethng!" he snarled in her ear in rough English. "Haha, you will nacht leave me alive, leetle… leetle…" He looked down in surprise at the curvy form he held. "… gidrl?!"

"Congratulations, you just won $64,000. I am, in fact, a girl," Kim said smoothly, relaxing into his chest, if only to ease the pressure of the razor edge on her neck. Realizing struggle would end very messily, she forced herself to put escape plans temporarily on hold. She had to wait for the opportune moment.

The blade quickly persued her as realization dawned. "Youreh… Youreh… _Kim Possible!_" His astonished voice hardened. "…I will slit your throat! Behead you with my rifle!" He smiled grimly. "Does dhis scare you, infidel gidrl? Are you apfraid of death?!"

"Not as much as your breath," Kim said dryly.

He growled and tightened his half-nelson until she exhaled sharply from the pain. Satisfied, he continued his scare tactics. "…I will dhrow your sluttly head back to your Amerikan friends-"

"Wait, wait. How'd you know they're here?"

"One does not have to see the elephant to feel its stomping… After you are dead, I will alert my comrades… Where was I, again?"

"My head."

"Oh, right… And dhen we will crush dhem! Crush dhem! With you and yhor military friends out of the way, it will be oned less obstikal in pushing back yhor unclean ways and yhor unrepentant apostasy, and oned step closer to the borderless global state of united Islamic brotherhood!"

"Well, at least I could finally dich the visaaaaack!" Her quip was cut short as he pressed the flat of the knife hard against her windpipe to cut her off. He then began gently rubbing the edge, very cold and ticklish, up and down the front of her throat as he spoke again.

"Stop interrupting-! Do you think us a joke, Ms. Possible?" he said, his voice dropping to a deadly hiss. "Did you think you could actually win? Did you really think you could just… _trounce_ in here and take us over that easily, like this was one of your little world-saving games? Fool.... We are not your Drakken. We are not your Monkey Fist or your Señor Senior Senior. We are not your villain-of-the-week. No. We are world-wide; we are infecting from within every country who dares defy the holy sanctions of the Koran. You cannot stop us, lhittle gidrl. We have no countries to sanction; no bases to hit. Shut dhown one link, and we garow another one. It is but a giant game of – what do you Amerikans call it? Whack-a-Mole. Kill one ov us, Ms. Possible, and tdree more rise to take the fallen martyr's place. We have Allah, God, on our side, and it is useless to fight when your saviors are backed by the blessings of God."

_Blah, blah, blah-blah-blah,_ thought Kim with slight irritation. _Now we get to the good ol' religious spiel. That un' goes all the way back to the Crusades, and then some…_ Cigarette Man's next words, however, stopped her cold.

"…But, I think," he in a slow grate, "we should bering this pointlessss conversadton to an end. You are alone, Kim Possible. You are helpless, Kim Possible," He moved the blade out and to the left of her throat to gain leverage, "And nhow et is time for you to die."

Kim knew her race was run. There had been no opportune moment. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping the guy was an experienced killer. Then, at least, the agony would be quick. _I wonder,_ she mused, _If my life will flash before my eyes… Hopefully I can get a few slo-mo replays of Ron pasting Bonnie upside the head with a slushball…_ She smiled in spite of herself, wondering if the defiant smirk on her face would be any consolation when Simms found her body. She waited, adrenaline-tensed, heart hammering, for a tearing slice just below her line of vision, a second of unworldly pain as she watched the life flood out of her, then…… nothing.

She kept waiting. After what felt like an hour, she tentatively opened her eyes. The Ka-bar was still poised. Kim looked up. The man's face was frozen, eyes glinting slightly, as the wheels in his head slowly turned. Kim saw him mouth "alone." He gradually looked down at her, and his face broke into a predatory leer. Kim felt a chill lump drop in her stomach, cold as if she had swallowed a chunk of ice.

"It… does not seem… right," he murmured pensively, "to waste such a _fine_…" The hand not holding the knife trickled slowly toward her chest, "…prize on death first… Maybe I will give you a leetle… test drive first, before Allah has your unclean soul…" He scanned quickly up and down the dark, utterly deserted corridor. When he looked back, the carnal gleam in his eyes was stronger, his face shining with eager sweat, flushing just as quickly Kim's was draining of color. His lowering hand slipped beneath her bra, but the knife prevented her from slapping it away. A flush of parched, prickly embarrassment competed with the whiteness of her face. Below her mounting sense of horror boiled a sizzling, white-hot hate.

Now even he noticed her expression of mingled loathing and fear. "Whdel, whdel, et looks like I've… finally struck… a nherve!" he panted, voice rising, his smile widening sickeningly. "I like… to play _rough_, leetle girl…" he shook her violently, "But with your… _body_, I think… you… _can handle it!_"

Behind her, Kim heard the unmistakable _sninker–clink!_ of a belt slithering excitedly to the floor. In his testosterone-flooded haste, his grip loosened very slightly.

The knife inadvertently splayed away from her throat.

He never knew what hit him. Kim stabbed the points of her elbows into his outer chest, sending him gasping backward. Then like pistons, she punched her arms under his armpits, braced her feet and bent her legs slightly, then swung him up and over her head, nearly lifting him out of his zipped-down pants. She used his weight and momentum to slam him onto the steel floor in front of her in a sitting position, facing away from her. The force would have cleanly cracked the coccyx of an ordinary man, but judging from the strength of his bear hug, Kim doubted he had the ordinary man's build. In a movement that seemed as natural as night following day, she levered her foot back and drove it forward in a perfect punt kick. The steel toe of her low-cut boot smashed into the back of his neck.

A distinct crack, like the breaking of pencil, emanated from the point of impact.

The pained shout of a man immediately rose to the high-pitched death shriek of a rabbit. His pupils contracted to sand grains in the center of his eyes, scream trailing off into a faint squeak. His body arched, unpleasantly bending his neck much more than it should have, stiffened like a board, then toppled rigidly over. He gurgled morosely and lay still.

Kim stood motionless for a minute behind the corpse, breathing heavily, eyes closed, fists clenched. The shock of how close she had come to violation was far too new; too raw. Where he had groped her breast burned like the touch had been of fire, not flesh. She glared down at her assailant.

"Think with your _other head_ next time, dipshit!" Instead of horror and revulsion as with her previous homicide, her insides now scorched with affronted rage. It flowed warm through her, instilling her with a strange, frightening sense of power. She imagined it was what a strong shot of vodka felt like. She crouched and picked up her gun from where Cigarette Man had kicked it. Looking down, she watched her hand tremble slightly. She stared unblinkingly at the fingers wrapped around the grip of the gun, and the quivering faded away. With her left hand, she brought out the Kimmunicator and glanced at the map upon it. It blinked resolutely, patiently waiting for her to take the course ahead.

_Bad... boy... bad boy... bad boy, whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do, when I come for you..._

When Kim lifted her eyes, it was with irises that matched the tint of her hair.

"Buckle up boys," she said softly, "'Cause you're in for one _badical_ Red Scare."

Great Hall  
10:45 AM

"IN THE NAME OF ALLAH…. CHAAAARRRGE!"

"What in th' – ohhh shit! Here they come! Barkin, open fire NOW!"

"ONWARD, SOLDIERS OF GOD! ONWARD! VICTORY IS WITHIN REACH!"

"Maintain positions! Hold, hold!"

"UP AND OVER! UP AND OVER! CRUSH THE CHILDREN OF SWINE!"

"BRACE! BRACE! BRAAAAAAHHHHH! Die, die, DIE!"

Corridor 12-C  
  
_Silence._ The word hovered in the fringes of Kim's mind as she lifted the Kimmunicator again. _Silence._ Twenty skin-crawling minutes had passed since the attempted rape. Twenty minutes soundless as the grave, twenty minutes of edging carefully around blind corners and creeping along dusky hallways filled with dead or flickering lights.

She had met no one, so her hotheaded rage had cooled slightly, pushed back by immediate tension. Currently Kim crouched roughly two-thirds the way down a moderately well-lit passage - the metal walls sparkled hopefully in the fluorescent glow. Glancing absentmindedly at the PDA's screen, she quirked an eyebrow. Instead of Wade's upbeat mug or at the very least a map, she faced a snowstorm of frenetic black-and-white pixels. With an inquisitive frown, she tapped it on the side with a finger. Nothing happened. Uneasily, she klicked the Kimmunicator off and slipped it back into her pocket.

"Wade must be changing frequencies," she said aloud, unconsciously voicing her thoughts to break up the eerie quiet around her.

Her voice masked the sound of a terrorist swinging around the corner ahead of her, an insulated travel thermos halfway over his face. Kim froze, zero to the bone. Caught in the middle of a bright hallway less than fifty feet from the new arrival, there was no way she could stealth or kickflip her way out of this one. Without her Kimmunicator, she had no way of knowing if more baddies were behind this one, and if a pistol shot would bring them all running.

The terrorist must have been equally surprised, because as he matched eyes with Kim, they widened over the rim of his mug. He choked into his drink, sending creamy tan liquid boiling over the opposite side. He was lanky, faintly slouched, and wore robes that looked slightly too big for his frame. Hacking and coughing, he wrenched the thermos away from his face and dove toward a pistol slung over his hip. He faltered unprofessionally, trying to drag his gun out with one hand while keeping the thermos clutched in the other.

Kim, taking advantage of the distraction, acted on a harebrained, split-second decision and charged. Covering the gap in less than a second, she powered into him, spinning him around. The chrome-sheathed travel mug flung from his grasp and clattered to the floor, slicking the floor with its contents. The unmistakable burst of coffee aroma filled the air. Twirling her semiautomatic smartly around in her hands, Kim caught the gun by the silencer and cracked the pistol butt sharply into her prey's shoulder. He yelled in pain and dropped his Beretta. She rocked back half a step before bulldozing him squarely into the metal wall with a body check. He was only a few inches taller than her, but she took no chances, pinning his face and upper body to the wall with a shoulder planted in the small of his back. She leaned in close to his ear, ignoring his muffled swears and threats.

"Try _black_ coffee next time," she hissed in a voice of poisoned honey, gently sliding her index and pointer up the back of his neck to where it joined his skull. "_You'll stay awake longer!_" She pressed hard at a point on the back of his neck.

One second.

His struggling stopped.

Two seconds.

The curses died away, replaced by a low, shuddering gasp.

Three seconds.

Kim felt his body go limp; her shoulder now supported deadweight. Waiting a half second more, she lifted her fingers and stepped away. He collapsed and crumpled down the wall, twisting around so he faced her in a slumped sitting position. The motion scrunched his headscarf across one side of his face.

Kim ignored it. She stared at her open, empty hands with a mixture of awe and fear, almost terrified by the power contained within her fingertips. She had just performed a move from an obscure discipline called dim-mak. Acupuncture's evil twin, the basis of dim-mak consisted of 43 pressure points on the body that, if touched in the right manner, would deliver excruciating pain to the victim. More importantly, a handful of the points, called neurological shutdown points, allowed direct manipulation of a victim's nervous and circulatory systems.

And Kim had just used the deadliest one – capable of causing unconsciousness in three seconds, soundless death within four. She had only used it twice before, and never beyond a rigid three-second limit. The first time was for an emergency backwoods amputation. A backpacker had crushed his leg up to the knee between two boulders. Without the amputation, he would have died before the medevac chopper was off the pad, and Kim's mountain rescue group had no general anesthetic. The second instance involved an airplane crash survivor with second-degree burns over seventy percent of her body. At least with those two, she'd had their consent.

_Angel of Death,_ she thought with a shudder. _Damn, I've gotta be careful when I touch Ron…_

With that, she squatted next to her would-be assailant and checked the pulse in his neck. _Well, you'll live. Glad I didn't kill you, I guess…_ she thought dispassionately as she pried up one of his eyelids to check pupil dilation. _But… you'll be out for a while. Waaaaayyy out…_

She noticed his scrunched-up bandana.

_Huh… Let's see what you look like…_

She gently peeled the scarf away from his face, gasped, and stumbled backward several steps. The man – young man, she mentally interjected – could not have been a week older than her. He had the standard olive-brown skin and jet black hair, but his face was surprisingly smooth and gentle.

_Whoa… whoa. Damn, he looks my age to the _day_. Now I'm _really_ glad I didn't kill him…_ After a moment of consideration, she carefully bent him over so he was lying on his side in a safe unconscious position. _But… should I really be that surprised?_ she told herself, _How many times have you seen kids young as six throwing rocks and bottles at the big US or Israeli tanks? And the violent, gun-wielding, car-torching mobs of the "Arab Street" – aren't they usually teenagers? It's always a cruel surprise, though… I sometimes wonder about their backstories - how'd they get suckered into this nonsense?_

She paused. _Heck, how'd __**I**__ get suckered into this nonsense? Carrying a gun, ammo, and everything… I know it's been said in every single war movie ever made, but it still has that ring to it – War really _is_ hell…_

She gave herself a small shake. _Waitaminute, waitaminute, waitaminute. That's downer talk, Kim… Lead block talk. Drowner talk. Gotta float like oil on water. _

Returning to business, she patted him down, searching for concealed weapons. Finding none, she emptied his bandoliers of ammunition. To her disappointment, they were the wrong caliber for her gun. To be on the safe side, she kicked his Beretta down the hall and stashed its magazines in her backpack. Swinging on her pack, she checked the round count in her own gun. Satisfied, she quietly stepped down the hall, oiled around the corner, and vanished.

-----------------

The Kimmunicator rang softly in Kim's pocket. Her nerves smoother than from the previous unexpected calling, Kim simply registered it and slid into a nearby alcove in the wall. It helped that she had turned the calltone volume down. Shoving a bust of Osama out of her way, she klicked on the device.

"What's the sitch?"

"Good to see you, Kim," said Wade. "Sorry for blackout there. The frequency switch took longer than I expected."

"So not the drama," said Kim with a smile. "Well, OK, maybe s little drama. I ran into somebody while you were out, but he was no big."

"Oooh, sorry 'bout that," Wade said apologetically. "In addition to the switch, I had a bit of trouble with my main satellite out in the South Pacific. I like the position 'cause there's absolutely nothing out there to interfere with it. Apparently, the US Navy had the same thoughts and thought it was the perfect place to try out their new high-altitude EMP weapon... Naturally, I've protected all my hard work with a suppressant system, usually designed to block solar flare junk, but it automatically shuts down all the electronics when it senses an EMP or whatever so everything won't fry... So my entire communications grid was down for about ten minutes..."

Kim zoned out slightly to Wade's voice. She looked up at the ceiling, and to her surprise found a faded, crumbling red arrow painted on the rock, pointed toward the back of the alcove. At the same time, she realized she was sitting on a small Persian carpet and instantly recognized it as a prayer rug. _I must be in a little prayer corner,_ she thought, _And the red arrow... _she looked up again, _The red arrow... must point toward Mecca!_ Her head was snapped back down to the screen as she heard Wade say,

"...So I'm kinda worried about Ron. The last I heard, it sounded like they were still in the middle of the firefight. Maybe bigger than the one you left."

"_What?_" Kim went white.

Wade looked startled. "Calm down, Kim," he said, attempting to be comforting, "They're a Special Ops group -"

"Ron isn't!" Kim wailed. She checked herself and continued in a strained whisper, "Unless he's juiced on MMP, he doesn't know the first thing about defending himself!"

"You'd be surprised..." came the cryptic reply. "...And, well, look – everyone down there's probably been in real sticky sitches before.... Simms, Director, Barkin; they'll take care of him. Make sure nobody gets hurt. I'm sure they'll be fine."

"O…kay… I guess you're right…" said Kim, lying through her teeth. She used the slight pause to change the subject. "I'm still wondering – I haven't run into large groups of people. Just isolated incidents. I thought this place would be buzzing like Club Banana on Black Friday."

"Well, I _am_ rather proud of my squelcher network. All the enemy hears on their radios is static hiss… That, and I assume it's because you're in the officer's quarters. Rank-and-file would be on the lower level. I've picked up fewer heat signatures in the complex, too. You wouldn't know this, but there's been a big uptick in truck bombings, suicide attacks, and stuff all over the Middle East and the Indies since the 23rd. I guess they've sent out a bunch of their troops to stir up trouble."

"Mmmmph," growled Kim, scowling. "Well… Got any new directions for me, Wade?"

"None that I can see… Up ahead about a hundred feet, you take a left turn, walk thirty feet, and hit a four-way intersection. Go straight; my plans show a stairway. After that, it's about a seven-minute slink to Osama's quarters… I trust you know what to do once you get there."

Kim's mouth twitched faintly in a smile. "I'll think of something creative…" She switched topics abruptly again. "Heard anything from Ron?"

"None yet. I'm trying to reestablish my radio contacts. I'll let you know when I get through… Wade out." The Kimmunicator shut off automatically.

With an anxious chew on her lip, Kim slipped the blue device back in her pocket and thought back on the first verse of the Serenity Prayer.

_…Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…_

In little more than a minute, Kim arrived at the intersection. The hallways widened out, indicating a high-traffic area. The teen quickly checked a 360. She saw no one, and stepped out into the middle of the intersection. She had to cross it anyway, and now she had a sight advantage. The junction was lit from above by one large fluorescent light embedded into the ceiling. Immediately in front of her was a set of stairs, the rise of the bottommost step flush with the wall. Kim slowly walked toward the arched entryway and cautiously peered up, absentmindedly snapping open and fingering the cloth cover of an ammo belt pouch. The walls formed an upward-slating vault much like a tunnel. Due to the slope of the walls, the stairwell was not covered by metal plating; instead, the walls and steps themselves were bored out of the native rock, as rough and dark as the rock walls in the Great Hall. Above, she could see a glimpse of the hallway above. The metal plating resumed. With the exception of naked incandescents bolted to the crown of the arched ceiling, the stairwell would not have looked out of place in a castle dungeon; a crude throwback wedged between painfully modern decors.

_Which, actually,_ reflected Kim, _is a pretty good description of the contemporary terrorist network…_

"Who thaaaa… hell are y'u?"

It took the chip a split-second longer than normal to translate the slurred, disjointed Arabic. Kim spun around, bringing her gun to firing position. _**Damn**__ it, I'm really having trouble with my six today!_

Kim came to face a giant of a man, black-skinned and roughly six-and-a-half feet tall. Even from 30 feet away, she could see a thick film of sweat glistening over his tightly bound muscles and protuberant forehead. More immediately, she saw he had an AK-47 pointed directly at her chest.

"Kim Possible," she said cautiously back in Arabic, keeping an eye locked on his trigger finger.

"Errrahhhrrrr…" he trailed off, a bubble of spittle forming and popping at the corner of his mouth. He staggered forward a halting step, his eyes unfocused and glazed. Kim responded by taking a step back and tightening the grip on her gun.

The tense standoff lasted for another four seconds. Then, without warning, he opened up, spraying wildly. Kim writhed and bounced, a breakdancer on fast-forward, pumping off a series of three shots from her own gun. The loud, dry clatter of the AK-47 formed a direct contrast to the low-pitched _phum!_ of the silenced handgun. Points of light skimmed around her, missing her body by nanometers. Bright muzzle flashes popped across her vision like Christmas lights, and the pounding reports shаttered in her ears.

_This is no big,_ Kim thought as she executed a backflip, _I've dodged lasers… I've dodged sharks… Heck, I've dodged sharks with frickin' laser beams attached to their heads! A couple of bullets shouldn't be a – _

A round sliced across her right shoulder, slitting the fabric and drawing blood.

_OK, never mind._

Following the muzzle flashes, Kim noticed that the thug was swinging his gun in a wide clockwise circle. She realized that if she timed it right, she could shoot where the enemy was, while not being where the enemy would shoot. But that was made all the more difficult now that the confined space was filling with gunsmoke. Tracers sliced surreally through a thickening white fog. As she rolled to the left and flung herself to the wall to avoid the downward turn of the circle, meaning the right side of the hall was fragmenting, she fired twice more. She heard a small click and the empty magazine fell to the floor.

_Crap._

At the same, she sensed her attacker was beginning the upward stroke of his firing circle. She threw herself to the right in a one-handed cartwheel. In her intense concentration, everything seemed to slow down. The bullets flying along and between her outstretched arms and legs moved as if through water. A round whined past, an inch from Kim's nose. She could see the spinning lead tip, lit up by exhaust gasses like a firefly. Even the cavitation of air behind the bullet was slightly visible, giving the appearance of a thin tail on a tadpole. Sounds became selective. She could clearly hear her hand slap the concrete floor, the individual round cycling of the AK-47, but the reports were now far apart and muffled as if by earplugs. Upside down, Kim felt a magazine glide out of the pocket she had snapped open earlier and fall slowly through the air. She bent her other hand backward so that the opening in the butt of her gun faced upward. The clip slipped in as if guided and locked into place, the sound oddly loud in her mind's quiet. The upper half of her body bent over to finish the cartwheel, and time ripped back to normal as she crunched into the wall. Quietly stunned that the move had actually worked, she had the odd feeling she'd just experienced a bizarre, real-life homage to the Matrix.

She bounced upright. The machine gun had stopped; a cloud of cordite obscured her target. Presumably, he was out of ammunition or, most likely, dead. Kim stood panting, her gun at the ready. The rip in her shoulder screamed at her.

Slowly, the gray haze of smoke wafted away and vanished.

Kim felt her mouth drop open.

Standing there, staggering like a drunk puppy, spurting blood and intestinal fluid from five gunshot wounds like a busted radiator, stood the giant. He let out a high-pitched, maniacal cackle and stumbled forward like a zombie. He grinned widely, the sneer stretching his skin wide and tight like a skull mask. With a flick of the wrist, he thumped the AK-47 between his hands so he held it, like a staff, by the stock and blistering-hot barrel. Horrified, Kim fired into his lung. He twisted slightly from the impact, hacked up a mouthful of thick blood, and continued forward, laughing even more insanely.

Simm's voice floated back to her.

_"…You're letting your aim drift as you fire, but unless that target's tripping on PCP, he'd be dead anyway…"_

A wild, dangerous gleam to his eyes, the thug broke into a barreling run. Kim stumbled backward, eyes widening in increasing desperation and bewilderment. Abandoning all pretext, Kim blasted him five rounds rapid.

No effect. It was like trying to stop a locomotive.

_Gahah, stupid, stupid hollow-point bullets!_

Taking another round square to the chest, he took a flying leap toward her. Time slowed down again. Her empty cartridge ejected. She had just enough time to jam her gun to the autoloader, hear it click, and lift it halfway back up. He smashed into her like a cinderblock. Together they flew into the stairway, Kim on the bottom. She crunched hard into the worn granite steps and ramped upward due to their angle. The man's body weight kept her lower half pinned down. Grunting like a bull, the maniac popped up into something like a push-up, wracked the AK's action into her throat, his arms straight out and locked, attempting to strangle her. Gasping and turning purple, Kim raised her arms and planted the silencer's muzzle flat to the man's chest, directly above his heart.

He glanced down at it, then back up at her, surprise etched over his face. Looking straight into his eyes, Kim flashed him a cold, hard smile. Then she twisted her face into an ugly snarl and unloaded.

Except for the near-continuous clack-clack-clack of the hammer, it was virtually silent. His body went rigid as it digested the first slug, then became increasingly limp on the remaining four. Unstable from the angle of the stairs and his propped position, the force of the continuous contact shots sent him over the tipping point. As the Sigma's action finished cycling, he slowly tilted on his heels and fell backward, majestically as an oak tree. The only difference was that this tree trailed a line of smoke from a fist-sized hole in the middle of its trunk.

Kim eased halfway up, winded. She'd heard a story of a California cop who was sprayed at car's-length by 28 bullets from an automatic, yet escaped almost unharmed… But she thought such things were usually confined to action movies, and had doubted it actually happened that way "real life." Or at least to her.

She rubbed a series of deep throbs running horizontally down her back and winced. They would develop into deep purple bruises in about an hour. Noticing the empty magazine box lying across her midriff, she mechanically chunked a fresh load into her gun. Casings littered the steps, winking up at her.

_...You wouldn't have even __**had**__ all this trouble_, the Monday-morning quarterback in her head chided, _If you'd used that boom-boom-tap thingy. Moron._

Standing, she tentatively approached the body. There was almost no blood; his organs were on their final legs when he bodyslammed her, and the final blasting destroyed his chest cavity. She peered at the large entry wound, both revolted and morbidly curious. Instead of the large "O" she had expected, his chest was crossed with a raised "X." (Later she would learn from Ben this was because the propellant gasses, usually vented into the air, had nowhere to go once they entered the body. They injected into his soft tissue, expanded, and tore the skin around the wound. Although Kim didn't know it, there were no usual burnt gunpowder marks (_tattooing_) for this reason; all components of the gunshot went into the body.)

Her revulsion and bile finally catching up with her, she gently rolled him over with a prod of her boot. Poking through the robes in his back was the mushed tip of a JHP, folded and curled like a brass flower. As he turned, Kim heard a light, musical tinkle of breaking glass. Squatting, she found a slim vial crumbling out of a hip pocket of his jeans. Trickling like sand from the broken tube was a pure white powder. Kim lifted a pinch from the floor and rubbed it quizzically between her fingers. It wasn't cocaine or pulverized crack; that she had seen firsthand while assisting the Coast Guard in the Gulf. And it wasn't hashish, a ubiquitous Middle Eastern drug, either. It didn't have the yellowish color, for one thing, or the stupefying effects. She churned on it, thinking back to all the scare-tactic lessons on drugs at MHS. Then it clicked; her mind had even told her.

_"…unless that target's tripping on PCP…"_

It now made sense. Kim didn't have a photographic memory, but now that she knew the drug on-hand, its details came back to her. _Effects of PCP… let's see… temperature spikes – that explains the sweat, slurred speech, blank stares… and the notorious rage and pain detach._ Kim picked up the unbroken end of the vial and held to eye-level, the splintery glass tines refracting and sparkling in the light. _And by the looks of it, our guy was an absolute slave to this crap… There's enough here to flatline a normal guy._ Shaking her head in disgust, she stood up. The motion was colder than it should have been and she looked herself down.

"Oh… _Yaahhhhggggg!_"

It was odd she hadn't noticed it before, but most of her torso and midsection was coated with a thin film of blood. Cooled, it had the feel and consistency of maple syrup; the thug's parting gift before she stopped his heart. Sick and dizzy, fighting the urge to heave again, Kim quickly checked the Kimmunicator before dashing to a nearby bathroom.

Emerging several minutes later, Kim still felt queasy. She swilled a last mouthful of water to wash out the remaining traces of the vomit, then spat magnificently onto the floor.

The blood washed quickly off her skin, leaving only a faint tinge of red, like a dunked magic marker. The shirt was a slightly different story. Being synthetic, it dried swiftly, and the color came out easily enough, but it left a sticky residue like soda. Kim was thankful she had brought a spare set of clothes to the American base.

_Well, at least it doesn't show up much, I guess, _she thought, giving the lower section another rub. _Yay for black!_

After putting a sharp crink in the barrel of the AK-47, she eased up the stairway. Lying flat, she slid her eyes above the top step. Seeing the corridor vacant, she hurried along the new floor at a crouched run.

Fifty yards and three corners later, Kim arrived at a T-intersection. Several of the lights were out, casting the zone into twilight. Her lesson learned, she flattened to the wall and silently klicked on the Kimmunicator. Unwinding the fiber-optic viewing cable from a small red port above the screen, she carefully snaked it around the bend. She discovered a lone sentry standing guard in front of a heavy vault door. A light flickered above him, dispelling the gloom. Kim pressed the rocker switch and zoomed in. The door was held shut by an electronic lock.

She recalled the cable and backed away from the intersection about ten paces. Sliding to the floor, she flicked the view screen to her techie's face.

"What's the supergenius take on this, Wade?"

"You'll have to take out the doorman before I can do anything, of course… Hold up while I crunch a stillframe of your vid through a few of my references." He entered a few keystrokes, waited two or three minutes, then rolled down a spreadsheet. "Hmm...This door was designed to compartmentalize the complex and stop threats like, well, you."

"As if!"

"I've run the zoomed image of the lock through GJ, CIA, and FSB databases. Apparently, it's Soviet-made. It's at least from the early 80's; a relic from the Cold War. Which means there's nothing to hack. No wireless, no networking, no interlink with the 'Net…" he trailed off, looking shaken. "I'm at somewhat of a loss."

"Well, what should I do?"

"Start with the sentry. I'll think of something." The PDA turned off.

_Wheeee… more killing,_ Kim thought sadly. She inched back to the intersection. The guard still hadn't moved. He stuck his hands lazily in his pockets, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Kim unreeled the fiber-optic and pasted it to the top of the silencer with a blob of pink lipstick goo. Gingerly, she rotated the barrel around the corner, careful not to attract his attention. Using the Kimmunicator screen like a periscope, she lined up the sight of the man's forehead. She repositioned the gun slightly in her sweating hands. Taking a deep breath, holding it, she turned the Kimmunicator screen away from her and pulled the trigger.

A dry pneumatic _phump!_ was followed a second later by a chocked cry and a dull, rustling thud. Kim eased around the corner. The sentry lay crumpled beside the door, a dark red hole in both ends of his skull. Mentally blocking it out, Kim stepped across his lifeless form and peered closely at the lock. It was a fairly simple punchcode arrangement with the addition of a manual deadbolt.

"Got this, Wade?"

The Kimmunicator, resting in voice-activated standby mode, awakened. "Yeah… You took out the guard, obviously."

Kim glanced back over at the body. "Ehh, yes," she said remorsefully. She averted her eyes and returned to topic. For the heck of it, she took the doorknob and rattled it back and forth. "Well, so much for that idea… Should I break it?" she asked, already sizing up which leg had the most accuracy and power.

"Weeellll, I dunno…"

"Wade, c'mon," Kim said teasingly, "You know my motto – If the brute force approach doesn't work, you're obviously not using enough brute force." She paused, looking confused. "Oh, no, wait, that's Shego's motto."

"No, the thing is, this type of lock has an extra surprise of shutting down if physically smashed. Then you'd need a torch to open it back up…." He drummed his fingers on the table, looking pensive. "Unless…" He sat up and snapped his pudgy fingers. "Kim, dig in your pack for the lip gloss!"

Puzzled, Kim rifled through her rucksack's contents and pulled up the silver tin of Kissy Girl. "Lemme guess… high explosive… stink formula… perhaps, just maybe… normal lip gloss?" She raised a sarcastic eyebrow.

"It's acid to melt the lock."

"…"

"What…? Ron had a good idea."

Rolling her eyes, Kim followed Wade's instructions. She scraped out a large glob with a corrosion-resistant nalgene spatula and spread it over the lock. Impressed, she noticed the acid gel was white, creamy, and otherwise indistinguishable from normal lip gloss, and the spatula was the cleverly-designed handle to her blush brush. After about half a minute of nothing, the acid started to smoke. Before the clear cream turned a sludgy black, Kim saw the metal below the chemical bubbling. Hissing audibly and releasing a large amount of smoke smelling of burnt plastic, it burrowed into the metal like a boring machine. A few electrical sparks flared inside the newly-created tunnel as the lock struggled and died. Waiting another forty-five seconds, she followed Wade's prompt and coated the rim, the hole, and the remaining corrosive with nail polish, in reality a base compound to neutralize the acid. The mixture hissed loudly a final time and fell silent. Kim warily turned the safe-style handle and the blast door swung smoothly open.

"Wade, how did you…?"

"The USSR never expected stuff like this on its locks, and it had never dreamed of all the synthetic compounds and mixtures we can create today. The lock was designed for crude physical shocks, not 21st-centry chemicals. The acid went right through the components, cauterizing them like a lightsaber."

"A… lightsaber?" Kim said gently.

Wade looked slightly embarrassed. "Um, yes… Geeked out a little there."

"No big," Kim said with a smile.

"So… I'll give you a small beep if my scans pick up anyone coming?"

"Please-and-thank-you… Kim out." She set the device on standby and pocketed it. Sliding around the half-open door slab, she carefully edged along the wall. Clearly, she had entered the top brass's section. Overhead lighting was provided every thirty feet or so by two low-wattage incandescent bulbs in a golden, cheap plastic chandelier. While not comparable to even a one-star motel, at least the fixtures didn't buzz or flicker, and the cast was warmer than the fluorescents'.

_Of course,_ Kim thought wryly, _It would be so the irony if these guys are so cheap they got all this stuff from Smarty Mart. The Great Satan has everyday low prices, after all... _

Periodically, she came upon a picture in a gold-colored plastic frame screwed to the wall. The pictures were a series of prints of fundamentalist Muslim life: beautiful, lovingly handcrafted calligraphies spouting death rants to America, and watercolor depictions of important scenes from the Koran, as interpreted and aggrandized by al-Qaeda. All important figures in the religious prints were pasted over with colorful geometric cutouts, as per religious code. Unfortunately, the attempt to bring élan to the cold, hard metal walls backfired miserably. The pictures simply accentuated the bare spots and made them even more glaring by comparison. Attempting to bring cheer and color to the aseptic, evil place was like trying into light up a skyscraper with a flashlight.

The thin corridor was a zigzagged, and no other hallways intersected or branched out from it. Scattered unevenly down the passage, doors lead to offices and living quarters of top al-Qaeda leaders. Kim ducked below the doorknob level at each one, wary of a small glass peephole set into each entry. Small placards dangling from various doorknobs stated in Arabic such things as, "Gone to fight the infidel in Tora Bora. Back in 5 days," and "God is Great! Leading our holy troops against the vile Crusaders in Iraq. Will return next Thursday. Feed the fish."

Presently, the doors dropped away and she moved into a more ornate section – there was carpet on the floor. As Kim approached a sharp 90-degree corner, the Kimmunicator _peeped_ softly_._ She huddled into the wall, just at the lip of the turn, and swiftly pulled out the handheld. On the map, the hallway formed a rough Z, the slanting bar positioned vertically. She crouched at the bottom turn of the Z. A small red dot haltingly turned the upper bar and began walking down the long connector. Within a few seconds, she heard padded footsteps, muffled only slightly by the thin, worn carpet. The slow pace of the footfalls indicated the walker was concentrating on something. Sure enough, once he neared where Kim stood tensing, she heard the airy rustle of flipping papers. She let the index of her right hand slide off the action to cradle the trigger tongue. Less than ten feet from the bend, she heard a paper waft gently to the floor and skish softly. His knees cracked as he bent down the retrieve it. As he straightened, an electronic device warbled. With a small exclamation of surprise, he snapped a folder shut.

Panic-stricken, Kim looked down. The Kimmunicator was blank. Mouth half-open in incomprehension, she heard a belt clip snap and an electronic _kic_ as he activated a walkie-talkie. The radio immediately started yelling at him, cut across by his rapid-fire inquiries. The wall prevented her from clearly hearing everything that was said.

_Where'd in the __**bejezus**__ did he get a working walkie-talkie?!_ She thought rapidly, _Have Wade's squelchers failed? Is this guy using a separate network??_

Kim's alarm evaporated a few lines later, replaced by an electrical storm crackling in her veins. As she listened to the fluent Arabic, it slowly dawned on her that she was overhearing the conversations of Ayman al-Zawahiri, al-Qaeda's second-in-command.

Softly, she ratcheted back her left arm and held it poised like a coiled spring, palm facing outward, fingers bent over. Her adrenaline rise paused as she distinctly heard her name spit out of the talkie's speaker, followed by "strike force." At once, Al-Zawahiri's speech became clipped, tense, and agitated. He barked a few loud commands into the radio and then angrily shut it off. Kim heard him whirl around, undecided, cursing. Fighting an internal battle, he stepped forward, back. Kim's worry turned to panic as she heard him take a final spin and pound back the way he had come. Then he stopped. After another few seconds of unsure pacing, he turned and dashed back toward her, footsteps loud and slapping.

Blood pounding in her ears, Kim cocked her arm back ever further, so her palm was now level with her lip. As al-Zawahiri skidded around the corner, Kim's arm exploded forward like a piston. The hard base of her palm collided with the bottom of his nose in a burst of flying papers and blood mist. Combined with Kim's forward thrust and al-Zawahiri's momentum, the sudden deceleration of his head flung the rest of his body forward and up.

Everything slowed down again. He hung at chest level, horizontal, as if suspended, before falling straight down and landing lifelessly on his back. The remaining papers from a manila folder he had carried gently fluttered down and around like snow.

_You know, they're going to __**have**__ to learn not to build all these blind corners..._

Panting and clammy as the adrenaline wound down, Kim took a step back to regroup herself. Composed again, she looked down at the terrorist leader sprawled at her feet. His nose had all-but disappeared. Its tip currently resided on the level of his cheekbones. His eyes were clouded and dark red; a result of bone shards driven back into his brain and upper face. The deep trench where his nose had traveled was quickly filling with blood and brain fluid. Undecided between triumph and nausea, Kim quickly turned her attention to the papers. Kneeling, she scrabbled for the sheets slithering away across the floor. Gathering them into a large, untidy pile, she began hastily scanning titles, the chip deciphering the Arabic as she went.

Her eyes slowly widened as she thumbed through the documents. The folder's contents detailed pending and future al-Qaeda operations and attacks, with proposed dates of launch. _A chimera virus,_ one segment read, _Made up of smallpox and HIV. Make use of disaffected South Korean and Russian biological scientists. Smallpox translates into massive first-wave deaths and contamination. Accelerated HIV process produces extended second-wave. Deploy location: Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, via aerosol vegetation-tending sprayers._ One report showed a gigantic orange bomb, nearly the length of a school bus. _Spoil of war, _read the text. _Imperative deployment. Suggested use: tractor-trailer truck bomb on Golden Gate Bridge. Secondary use: flattening six city blocks of LA financial/entertainment district._

There was more. Small-scale, high-terror chemical/biological attacks on major cities using modified model rockets (_Delivery system in development_, said the report.) The rockets would be launched from a park near the target, using D engines and a tilted launch pad for maximum range. The contaminant would be released when the engine's parachute-ejection charge fired. (_Nearly untraceable,_ extolled the findings). Power grid disruptions. Internet hostages. Children and babies used as human bombs, being easier to replace. The 4/23 profile stamped with a red "Success!" mark.  
Kim flipped faster, mouth open. There were paper trails of all sorts. Al-Qaeda power structure flowcharts. Cash transferals and deposits. Lists of weapons distributions. Most damningly, the paper trails appeared to link Iran, al-Qaeda, and North Korea. The Iranian nuclear power plants built after Ahmadinejad finally got bored of toying the U.N. had been a front all along. Enriched uranium would be arriving at the compound in several weeks; transfer hinged on Bin Laden's pending signature. Rocket casings from North Korea's Taepodong-3 series, which Kim had never heard of, were due for delivery slightly after the yellowcake. Deployment schedule: any major U.S. city of choice within six months.

Trembling, Kim stuffed the papers roughly into the file folder. Her brow and exposed skin ran with cold sweat. With a contemptuous snarl, she slapped the thick file over al-Zawahiri's destroyed face. She made sure Simms and the rest of the Special Forces team would see it.

Standing at the corner, she pulled out the Kimmunicator and used the four-way rocker switch to zoom out on the map. She pulled out until she was past the Z turn. At the end of the upper bar, there was a final right-angle turn like an L. At the end of the L's long bar, a square room steadily blinked yellow. Kim's mouth pulled, slightly exposing a set of gritted teeth. The fluid, powerful, foreign feeling of rage returned, the temperature of her blood rising from a simmer to quick bubble. She greased soundlessly around the curves, emotions rising with each step. At the final bend, she fought to maintain control.

_Don't blow up,_ she pep-talked to herself, _Not here. Not now. You've done too much; are too close, to be stupid now and get killed. Don't let the Kim-ness take control. Don't let the Kim-ness take control…_

She swiftly peeked around the corner. The hall dead-ended about thirty feet away at a polished metal door. Two stocky, robed, highly-decorated men flanked each doorpost. They carried black-market Russian RPK-74s nonchalantly at their sides. Kim quickly sized them up.

_Doofusi Standardus. Your basic, average lackey. …Should be no big._

Amazingly, it appeared news of the attack had not filtered this far back into the fortress. Wade's information blackout had done its work.

Kim took a deep breath, steeled herself, and then fired a round above the sentries into the wall where it met the ceiling. Before the retort died, she flashed around the corner and sprinted forward. As the bullet impacted, both sentries twisted to look up at it, stunned. Too late they turned back to see a taloned phoenix bearing down on them. Once within striking distance, Kim hurled herself into the air with a guttural yell while snapping her legs outward in a side split. Using her forward momentum, she crushed into their sternums with a foot. Twisting her right arm under her crotch, she angled the gun parallel to her leg and plugged the goon on the left. Using the recoil, she turned in midair to the man on the right and used gravity to hammer him with her legs, riding down on his chest like it was an elevator. They crashed to the ground and he lay still. Kim stepped off, half-expecting the door in front of her to burst open.

Nothing happened. The three walls were silent, reflecting the sound of Kim's hard breathing back at her. She checked the gunshot body. Dead before he hit the floor. Swinging around, she dispassionately put the gun barrel to the second man's forehead before bending forward to check his pulse. As she stretched her hand toward his mouth, a warm breeze slid across her fingers - he was still alive. Battle blood still flowing through her, Kim straightened and pressed the barrel harder to his forehead. With deadened eyes, she wrapped her finger around the trigger and pulled.

Her muscles did not respond. She continued to stand, index on the trigger and gun poised for a perfect, soundless contact shot. Slowly, she let the muzzle fall from his forehead. It left a small, circular, pale red indent in the skin.

_I… I… can't do it. Not in cold blood. Fighting is one thing, but… not while he's out of it. Never knowing what hit him... No. I'm not that kind of girl. Not yet. Not ever._

To be safe, however, she kneeled and bound his hands and feet with zip-ties she dug out of her backpack.

Her remorse faded as she stood and stared at the closed door only feet from her.

_Three inches of separation. After all this - that's all that's left. Three inches of metal separation._

Her focus spun slightly as she tried to grasp her position. A single door separated her from the USS _Cole_. The Nairobi embassy. Riyadh. World Trade Center, 1993. World Trade Center 2001. The Pentagon. Madrid '04. London '05. Bali. Afghanistan. Pakistan. Iraq. 4/23.

Kim felt hate, pure, unaccustomed hate, build inside her like water flooding up an elevator shaft.

_Bad boys, bad boys…_

Extending her arm, she unscrewed the silencer from her gun. Coolly, she ejected the depleted magazine and made to insert a new one. Pausing, she stared at the small, soft-gray box settled in the palm of her glove.

_Whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do…_

She gently slipped it back into a hip pocket and withdrew a different magazine from the back. After brushing away a whiff of hair hanging in front of her eyes, she rammed home a full load of armor-piercing full-metal-jackets with a solid _ka-chick_.

_…When they come for you?_

She slunk to the doorframe. After doing one final checkdown to make sure nothing was bleeding too severely, she flattened her back against the door and passed the gun to her left hand. Kim pressed her ear firmly to the flat metal surface. She heard nothing. Calculating each muscle movement, she slid her right hand to the gleaming brass doorknob. Her fingers poised, grasping for a moment. Then she wrapped each finger individually around the brass bulb. It was cool, smooth, and worn; firm under her touch. The temperature change caused sweat on her gloves to condense.

Kim rolled her eyes down, looking at the system only awaiting a command. The veins in her wrist automatically tightened as her arm prepared itself to move.

A voice floated back to her.

_...Oh, yeah, like he's just gonna leave the back door open!_

She twitched her hand counterclockwise.

The knob turned. Biting her lip to keep down a burst of excitement, she twisted her wrist a bit more. The handle rotated a centimeter more and then caught. Kim froze.

_This always happens when you want to be quietest… Alllwayyys…_

Holding the tip of her tongue anxiously between her teeth, she hesitatingly applied more torque. Nothing. Resignedly, she used more pressure… bit more… more… She knew the strain was building…. She knew it was coming… no way to get around it… Worth the risk? Yes, she decided, putting on more strain. She squeezed her eyes shut. Only a little… bit… farther… and…

POW!

The sound of the catch popping in the lock resounded down the silent hallway like a proverbial gunshot. Kim pulled in a quick, sharp breath; it hissed wetly between her clenched teeth. When no angry, whining bullets punched through the door after several nerve-wracking seconds, Kim tentatively rotated the doorknob. It easily turned the rest of the way. Taking a deep breath and blowing it slowly back out, Kim eased the nervous tension threading down her spine. A line of perspiration ran down her temple as her adrenaline warmed again. Bracing her right leg forward, she firmly planted her right foot against the bottom corner of the door. Her entire body formed a series of tightening angles as it geared for action. She lifted her gun to the ready.

_This is it. All or nothing. …Here we go._

With pulse pounding and gun held whisperingly just under her chin à la Bond, she applied pressure with her shoulder and softly nudged the door open.

_Bad boy, bad boy – whatcha gonna do...? __**I'VE COME FOR YOU!**_

April 26, 2007  
11:00 AM  
Bunker #462  
Corridor 36-C  
Chamber of the Most Prodigious Great Crusader.

To be continued...


	12. Meeting with a Madman

**12. Meeting with a Madman**  
_"...American woman...!"_

April 26, 2007  
11:00 AM  
Bunker #462  
Corridor 36-C  
Chamber of the Most Prodigious Great Crusader.

Kim slowly hinged the door open, keeping her body glued to the surface. As she pivoted into the room, she let the gun fall from "standby" to "kill a beeeyotch," pointed hard and deadly in front of her. She now understood why she hadn't become Swiss cheese from the noise earlier. The narrow side of the door was hacksawed off and planed smooth, with layers of pale yellow soundproofing stuffed crudely into the door hollow.

Her picture of the room widened with the door. She blinked as her eyes narrowed – the light was much stronger and brighter in here. Four bare bulbs dangled by their cords from the ceiling, their cast glaring off the austere walls of the metal-sheathed box. An opened cot ran along the right wall. A small, portable television sat on top of it, sagging into the faded canvas, the power cord wrapped neatly around its body. Prayer rugs were folded neatly in a pile at the head of the cot. An expensive network camcorder lay on the floor at its foot, leaning against the cot's aluminum supports. Even from across the room, Kim could see "Daniel Pearl" etched into the camera's side.

Heads decayed. That trophy could last forever.

Kim snapped to center. A sturdy wooden desk stood before her. At least, the desk had been sturdy when new. Now, its edges were rounded, uneven, and splintering. The legs were pitted and shaved. One was deeply cracked, held together with coils of gray duct tape. The desk's turquoise paint was chipped and bubbling. Paint on the sides and top hung off in fissures and flakes, like barren ground cracking open in a drought. In the work area, the paint was worn through to the bare wood. Kim let her eyes drift upward. The slender, unmistakable form of a Kalashnikov, an AK-74, identical twin to the venerable AK-47, leaned casually against the right side of the desk. Tracking higher, she finally beheld the terminus of her long, bloody, exhausting trek.

He sat hunched intently over a typed paper, judiciously scratching out phrases with a red pen and scribbling edits. His short, circular turban, white as ever, perched over thick, scraggy black hair that was intermixed with gray. Bushy and tangled, the beard trailed out of sight below the lip of the desk. Streaks of strain-induced gray ran through it. An army jacket draped loosely around the shoulders his off-white robes like a blanket. His long, pointed face looked weary; the hook nose and high cheeks were sunken, pocked, and faintly discolored. His tangle with typhoid in mid-2006 must have drained him. But his eyes, his piercing, black, beetle-like eyes, twinkled and danced with life and vigor. Something good, something very good, within the last few days had given his spirits a tremendous boost.

Kim pressed the tip of her tongue hard against her top row of teeth in contempt. Flattening her aim on the figure seated in the chair, she wrapped her grip tighter around her pistol. There was no sweat; no wavering; no hesitation.

She did not use the standard front-forward Weaver stance. She took the supple classic, the slim profile, body a single flowing line from backwards-extending left hand to the muzzle in her outstretched right. She glared down her shoulder, eyes hardened into emeralds, facets sharpened to deadly razor edges. With a flick of the wrist, she swung the door closed behind her. The bolt clicked faintly as it locked.

Osama pricked his ears forward slightly at the snap of the catch but did not look up.

"Ah, Zawahiri," he said in Arabic, still absorbed in his work. He gave the papers a final, hasty scribble before roving over a sheaf of other papers in front of him, arching his eyebrows expectantly. "…I wanted to make a few suggestions about your proposal to use _tifla_ in our jihad." He pulled out a second sheet and continued. "All-in-all, the plan to use children as suicide bombers is complementary. At such a young age, they are much easier to mold and brainwash. No trouble at all to persuade them, no trouble at all… You have the logistical benefit, too... You get many more of them at a lower price, they don't eat as much, take up as much space, or need as much training, and if one stupid idiot gets himself gutted by the Americans, then, well, there's twelve more of them eagerly waiting to avenge his 'martyrdom.' …Let's see…" He paused, reading. "No problem with getting them close to their targets… The infidels have this odd soft spot for small children. Consider them innocent. Or at least out-of bounds, to use the American jargon… How quaint… How very quaint indeed…"  
"But one criticism… Ten-year-olds should be able to carry enough explosives to cause moderate damage – we could stuff their school backpacks with IEDs –, but I'm unsure about our how to use six-year-olds. They might not be strong enough yet to carry the required pay…," his eyes flickered upward for a fraction of a second, "…pay… pay...... load…"

He looked up fully to find one -very- displeased Kimberly Ann Possible staring at him from across the room.

Bin Laden gasped and dropped his pen to the desk with a clatter. He pressed his hands to the desk to steady himself as he gaped at her, mouth open. Kim studied his reaction with an air of detached objectivity, as if he were a bug she was about to crush on the sidewalk. A long moment of silence passed. Osama stared at her, mounting horror in his eyes. She coolly returned the gaze, unblinking, over the sight of her semiautomatic. He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes as he reached a conclusion. "You – you're not Zawahiri," he dimly said at last.

"And Bingo was his name-o," Kim snarled, icicles hanging from her teeth like fangs.

They contemplated each other for another silent moment before bin Laden abruptly lunged for his AK-74. Looking almost bored, Kim fired. The automatic skittered away across the floor. With her gaze still locked on bin Laden, her arm independently tracked the assault rifle. Two more direct hits to the action destroyed it. The cracking report, muzzle flare, and jerking recoil had no effect on her stonecold expression. But her frigid exterior was just a shell. Behind it, ice vaporized into steam, turning her into an overclocked pressure cooker. The strain would eventually, inevitably find a weak spot.

She smoothly swung the gun back to center and sent a round screaming in Osama's direction. The terrorist leader flinched as the slug careened a millimeter past his temple and slammed into the wall intercom behind him, wrecking its innards. Discovering he wasn't dead yet, bin Laden stood shakily. He looked from the shiny green motherboards dangling from the speaker box to Kim's smoking pistol, relieved and somewhat confused at still being alive.

Kim smiled a tight-lipped smile and waggled the gun to the left. The message was clear: _Move_.

Osama hesitated, mentally picturing the cyanide capsules stashed in the desk drawer. They had been designed for this exact purpose. Do not be taken alive, his credo said.

Kim guessed his thoughts and her mouth hardened into a thin line. The gun stopped encouraging him to move, and now demanded it, zeroing for his chest. _Do it. Now._

Osama took the hint. Cautiously he raised his hands halfway and shuffled from behind the desk to the left, looking at Kim edgewise. He mentally prepared himself for a sudden, painful death while simultaneously trying to figure a way out of it, mind racing like a rat in a trap.

To his great surprise, the redhead slipped the gun back into its holster and advanced a step toward him. He retreated half a pace and fell into a weak fighting stance. Kim's mouth twitched faintly in an are-you-kidding-me-with-this smile as she raised an eyebrow.

"Oh… I'm sorry," she said in sarcastic apology, "Should have knocked, shouldn't have I? My apologies… It's always been a bad habit of mine… Hmm, and now that I think about it, I don't believe we were ever properly introduced…" She extended her hand slightly with a wide grin. "I'm Kim Possible."

Osama glared and ignored her prompt. "You're… supposed to be dead," he said blankly.

Kim looked over her exposed lower torso in fake shock. "Wow, I thought I would've noticed!"

"You… speak Arabic. Fluently. How…?"

"Brain chip," she replied in Arabic, tapping her head. "Not important right now… We should communicate in your native tongue, eh? Don't want any miscommunications, do we? 'Cause a miscommunication might lead to, you know…" she hesitated significantly, "…Violence… …And besides, we have to be _considerate of other cultures, no?_" She spat the last words out in a caustic bite. Taking a few deep breaths, she regained control. Grinning again, she opened her arms wide.

"Hit me."

"What!"

"Hit me. Fight me," she said lightly. "I barge right in, unannounced, shoot up your room; assassinate most of your peeps, not before blowing the shit out of your fortress downstairs with my Spec. Ops. friends, while happily, I might note, wiping out a good chunk of your way-twisted buddies…" – bin Laden hissed angrily at her – "So, all in all, I'd say that in the spirit of fairness, you get the first shot free."

Bin Laden narrowed his eyes at her, his forehead furrowing and folding into his eyebrows, scrutinizing her like she was insane.

_Maybe I am_, thought Kim. She wasn't so sure herself.

"No," he finally murmured.

"Excuse me?"

He puffed up self-righteously. "No… I said no… I will not lower myself to do battle with such a… a… dirty, unchaste whore of an infidel!" He smirked.

"Well tough shit, buddy," said Kim, finally dropping the act. "'Cause it's my way and the highway ain't an option...... …So …You want to fight America, right?" she said, falling into a low, deadly tone.

He considered the question and then nodded nastily.

"You wanna fight America…" she said quietly, half to herself, then rapidly built in volume. "You wanna fight America?! You wanna hijack our airplanes; you wanna bomb our buildings; you wanna kill our citizens; you wanna dismember, torture, behead our soldiers, reporters?! You wanna dominate us, murder us, and force us to your will…? You want to take nearly 5,000 American lives?! You want to drive a fuckin' PLANE into my fuckin' HOUSE and nearly kill _**MY MOTHER?!!**_" Kim screamed, losing control, "So you wanna fight AMERICA?! Then you're _gonna… fight… ME!!!_" She stood there, arms held wide, throat sore, willing herself not to cry from pent-up anger and frustration. "Go on, hit me!"

Looking positively alarmed by now, Osama tentatively pulled back his fist, and looking as if this was really against his better judgment, delivered a relatively weak punch to her right shoulder. Unfortunately, it landed right on the bullet slice from the druggie encounter.

Reacting as if it were a starting bell, Kim hauled back and flat-out slugged him. He flew across the room and hit the wall with a dull thud.

She followed through on the blow and straightened, shaking away the sudden pain of a split knuckle beneath the glove. Osama half-staggered on the opposite wall, cradling a purpling jaw. She nonchalantly strode across the room, a mixture of adrenaline and white-hot hate pumping through her veins like adder venom.

_Dang... That felt good._

Bin Laden saw her coming and rolled into a sitting position, looking up defiantly as she stood over him, her vision shaking slightly from fury.

Kim extended a hand. "Get up," she said quietly, tightly, dangerously, straining to keep her practical fighting window clear of the emotional one.

Osama did not take it, and merely stared up at her.

"_Get up!_" she repeated in a voice of steel, outstretched arm stiffening, the clear window fogging.

He still did not move, his thin mouth cracking painfully past a puce lump into an indolent leer.

All at once, the steam in Kim's chest found a weak point her thick, reinforced dams and six years of simmering anger toward the man folded before her boiled over.

"I SAID '_GET UP_', DAMMIT!" she roared, grabbing his long beard like greased lighting and hauling him upright so his nose was an inch from hers, ignoring his yell of pain and indignation. The smirk slid from the terrorist leader's face, replaced by a look of awed fear. "_Look, buddy... I did not come across three continents, take out people with sniper ri-I-fles_—" she yelled, shimmering liquid burning the edges of her vision as her voice cracked. "—_and–and pistol m-M-ore people at the–three-foot range, violate my own sense of humanity, just to end it with some one-finger, half-ass BULLET TO THE BRAIN!_" She released him roughly and he stumbled back a step. "I've said it before - _FIGHT ME!_"

The terrorist took another step back to gain tactical distance and this time braced into a strong fighting stance. Kim did the same.

"Yes, Ms. Possible... American might always decides when and where to do battle. May the best..." he stopped, sneering, "...man... win..."

A war scream ripped from the redhead's throat; she hurled forward, a living scythe in a whipping roundhouse sweep. Osama sidestepped, dived, and kicked out her unbalanced leg, sending Kim crashing flat on her back. He moved in on her, foot raised; Kim wrapped her legs around the free leg and wrenched, executing the same move on him that he had done on her. And so he too smashed to the ground, his back taking the brunt of impact.

Kim staggered up and away as waves of pain pulsed through her spine. Her legs were shaking. She felt like she had been punched in the kidneys. Panting, she wiped a trickle of blood from her lip and fell into an on-guard stance.

Bin Laden slowly brought himself to his feet, also breathing heavily, holding his back. He smiled painfully. "You are a fast learner, young _kalb_," he wheezed, "but you are so naive..... You are handing me _weapons_, little már'a," he taunted. "Attempting to give me a hand up; waiting for me to rise just now when you could have finished me – you are showing me you are honorable, that you are sentimental, that you _play by the rules!_ I know well of your infidel Western notion of chivalry... and it is worthless here. I have thrown away your outdated rulebooks! Here we play on my terms, as the Koran has dictated to me... Have you forgotten that I was once an expert fighter in the Soviet War, funded and trained by your government itself? That I drove off waves of your infidel kind from our Sacred Lands? I do not play by your codes! I have more tricks up my sleeve than you can even imagine!"

_Uhhhh-oooohhh..._

As her confidence flickered, all the aches and pains Kim had been holding back collapsed on her. The horizontal bruises across her back flared. Her pain in her cut shoulder and forearm suddenly fired back to life, followed by other small cuts across her face, stomach, and exposed arms. To top it off, the puncture in her thigh started to ache again.

"Furthermore," Osama continued, "Your yelling, your empty threats, your punch just now - they tell me what sets you off... I had expected better, knowing of your reputation. But I now know you are rash, emotional, weak, apt to fly into a passion... just like the _woman_ you are!"

The throbbing in Kim's leg vanished as surging angry fire licked through her veins. "Let's see how your theory holds up after I'm done, shall we?" she said through gritted teeth.

"As you wish..." said Osama, bringing his hands down to combat position. "Talking is not the way of the _Mujahedeen_... Let us quickly end this banter - we lose the tempo of the Dance of Death..."

He paused.

"Allah is waiting," he said quietly. "He calls for one of our souls to sup at His table tonight..." His face bent into an ugly snarl. "May it be yours!"

With a last battle cry, they charged.

Great Hall  
11:08 AM

Ron threw himself flat against the rummage pile as a new flurry of bullets whined overhead. He huddled tighter against the barricade, ignoring an ammunition box poking him in the ear. After fighting off the near-overrun almost a half-hour ago, he felt completely drained. His legs shivered uncontrollably. Rounds screamed by, six inches over his head. He forced himself to keep his eyes wide open. Each time a shell tore itself into the shelter, his breathing caught raggedly. Detonations and yells echoed softly around. By this stage in the battle, he felt nearly deaf from the overpowering, schizophrenic noise.

_…And you thought war was cool, huh, boy? But all your fancy little computer games never showed you this. Never showed you the fear. Never showed you the pain. The blood. The noise. The stink. The dirt… Ohhh, they never showed the dirt…!_

The haze of cordite and smoke and kicked-up dust needled at his parched eyes, up his nose, down his throat. He hacked involuntarily, almost jerking his head into the firing line. The ropy spit mingled with grime on his lips and came out whitish-brown. Straining his eyes upward, he beheld the square end of the M249 stock.

_KP and I have been around the world, and now it's a challenge just to raise my fingers a few inches…?_

Fighting with his dwindling nerve, Ron grunted himself forward slightly on the tips of his elbows. He was surprised his weapon hadn't been taken out yet, since it was turning the swath in front of it into a killing field. His movement pumped his body slightly higher; now the bullets seemed to be coming right at him. Tracers crackled around his ears, face, and hair. He screamed and flattened his face to the pile. Hesitatingly he tilted his head up again and wriggled his fingers to the trigger grip. After trying his best to hide behind the slim profile of the machine gun, he bit his lip and started spraying. The bark of the weapon deadened his hearing even further. From his low position, hot disintegrator links from the bullet belts rained down on him, bouncing off the hill to hit him in the chin.

His eyes narrowed as al-Qaeda fighters, trying to go "over the top" of their own emplacements, folded like paper as the bullets hit them.

Emboldened, he crouched higher, giving himself greater leverage and view. Clenching his tongue halfway out between his teeth, he let loose a short, determined cackle and wrenched the gun side-to-side like Rambo. The corners of his mouth flexed slightly in masochistic grin. An arcing bullet reflected off the flat top of the SAW's action, slammed into the bottom of his jaw, and came to a halt when it hit the top of his skull. His brown eyes widened in surprise. No bubbling "errk!" issued from his blood-filled mouth; his throat had been destroyed. His back suddenly felt unable to support his weight. He toppled backwards and slid limply to the bottom of the pile. Dead.

Bumping back to reality, Ron gave himself a shake to clear the morbid scenario from his mind. Finding himself still flat behind the gun, he quickly decided not to raise himself up any higher. An RPG rippled over his head. Before he could even turn to track it, it slammed into the rear wall with a tremendous roar. The overpressure blast flung his legs and rear up, nearly sending him tumbling face first over the pile's edge. His forehead cracked painfully into the M249's stock butt, leaving a bleeding gash across his brow. He ignored it as he scrabbled for the machine gun, which, knocked forward by his impact, threatened to fall down the front of manmade berm. Exposing his arm to the bullet-ridden face, he caught the heavy rifle by the stock and dragged it back up one-handed. Yanking it clumsily back into position, his pride was no match for his exhausted nerve, and he scrambled back down into safe cover just as another sheet of tracers ripped overhead.

Sliding on his butt, he tumbled to the ground and rolled over to Mr. Barkin. MHS's burly administrative aid sat propped rigidly against the junk hill. Eyes slammed closed. Teeth bared in spite of a mouth disciplined not to let the pain show. Breathing slow, heavy, deliberate, strained. He had his hand clamped over one arm, just below the ball of his shoulder.

The former lieutenant opened his eyes a sliver and glared down at the blonde teen. "Don't give me any of that positive crap, Stoppable," he growled tightly to Ron's worried look. "Duty first. How'd you do?"

"Sorta good, sir."

"Whatever. At least you didn't get yourself killed," he snapped. He sighed and resettled into the pile, closing his eyes. As he shifted his hand slightly, Ron could see red, slick, corded muscle between his bloodstained fingers. Through the muscle, he saw a pale, slimy, yellowish-white glint of bone intermingling with the heavy gray of a lead slug. He reached his hand forward to loosen Mr. Barkin's arm.

"Don't touch it!" he yelped, whacking the imploring fingers away.

"Look," retorted Ron, growing impatient, "You've been sitting here ever since you got shot, holding your arm. Good for you, taking it like a man, stiff upper lip and all that bull. Probably'll leave a nice big scar that you can show all the femininás. Now at least let me plug it up so you feel better!"

Surprised by the strength of Ron's reply, Barkin let his fingers drop to expose the hole in his arm. Ron mentally thanked himself for watching a lot of gory war movies.

Riffling through his backpack, he yanked out a red medic pouch, zippered it open, and unspooled an armslength of fluffy white gauze. After using Rufus's teeth to cut it, he rocked back on his heels, trying to decide how to tie the thing. At last, he decided to screw form and haphazardly wrapped the whole mass around Mr. Barkin's arm. That didn't work, and it half-unraveled, clinging to the wound by the blood. Frazzling slightly, he latched onto a maxim not to remove bandaging if bleeding didn't stop, yanked out another yard of gauze, and began to wrap it around Mr. Barkin's arm. He did it right this time, and soon he was left with two dangling ends in each hand. He stared blankly at them, racking his brains to remember the proper knot.

_::…While *you* made wallets!_

And lanyards. I ruled at lanyards!::

Yeah, but never at first aid!

Mr. Barkin's eyes flickered open. He looked down at Ron's frantic attempts to tie a cravat bandage and smiled faintly through half-closed eyelids. "Stoppable…" he mumbled, his speech slurring slightly.

"What!?" he shot, frustrated and desperate.

"About… about… that look… in 9th grade…"

Ron froze, unsure of what he was hearing. He looked up at his ex-teacher, quizzically cocking his head to one side.

"Yeah… maybe…" Barkin paused, as if it were painful to spit out. "…Maybe… it was nothing…. Maybe… I… overreacted…."

Taken aback, Ron stared at him, ignoring Jonathan as he dived by, hurling grenades. His face broke into an overjoyed grin before he checked it, blinking. Then he redoubled his efforts on the bandage, pounding Mr. Barkin supportively on the back.

"Don't-don't say that, Mr. B! It's not that bad yet! Hang on with me, OK? Just hang on! You're not gonna die here; you're not gonna die! We're gonna get you home, so you can grade that whiny kid's English paper!"

"I can't wait…" Mr. Barkin said with a low chuckle. For the first time in Ron's memory, the squash-nosed teacher smiled at him. "You're a piece of work, Stoppable."

Relieved that he wasn't about to lose his patient, Ron laughingly fired back, "I try to, sir!"

A rifle crack echoed to their left. With a stifled grunt, an al-Qaeda fighter, who had been attempting to throw a knife at the pair while their backs were turned, toppled out of sight behind the barricade rim, clutching his chest. Jonathan came over to them at a crouched run, the barrel of his M4 smoking. Simms, Dr. Director, Ben, and the rest regrouped around them, gunning down anything that moved as they came over. Everyone bled in some way.

At that moment, a grenade airbursted above them, flinging them to the floor and blasting down a cone of metal rain. Dr. Director shrieked and began writhing on the ground, a hand clamped over her right eye. Simms immediately jumped on her, administering first aid.

Ben and Jonathan exchanged glances.

"I don't know what it is, Leigh," said Ben, wincing as he adjusted his bandage, "We're killing 'em and killing 'em, fast as we can reload, but they just… keep… coming!"

Jonathan hissed in frustration like a snake. His blonde hair shone darkly with sweat and dirt. "Damn… This is getting nasty…" He raised his eyes briefly to see how Simms and Director were fairing. "…And we're running low on ammo, too. Thank God one of those piles we found was a weapons cache." His jaw flexed slightly as he listened to bullets ping into their refuge. "…Hey, Stoppable, got Kim's binoculars?"

"Yessir."

"Good, then. You follow me."

He led him back up the mound. They huddled into the wreckage as they reached the top and stared across at enemy lines.

"Gimmie the scopes."

Ron handed the demolitions expert the high-quality binoculars. He began scanning the opposition, searching for weaknesses. Ron did his own searching of the war wall. His eyes, accustomed to reacting to split-second videogame cues, picked up on a slight, repetitive movement centered around the large blast door in the rear. "Mr. Leigh........?" he said, pointing. The officer swiveled the binoculars to follow the line of his arm.

"Nice catch, Stoppable," he muttered while he focused. "Sunnavabe-yotch," he spat suddenly, passing the scopes to Ron. "Will you look at that? The mothers are coming through the entrance we hit earlier with a Javelin. No wonder we're getting shot to pieces – they keep getting reinforced! We'll *really* be in trouble if that isn't plugged within the next five-ten minutes… Matt!" he finished with a yell, twisting around.

"Yeah!" came the reply from below.

"Can you hit the rear door with another Javelin?"

"Sorry Jonathan, I just used the last one to take out a machine gun nest!"

"Dammit!" he swore as he turned back. "…Dammit!" He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his index, thinking hard. Absentmindedly, he thumbed bundles of C4 on his belt. His finger came slowly to a halt, and he lifted a beige brick of the explosive before his eyes. "Maybe…" he said pensively, "…But it would have to be right…" He jammed the C4 back in the belt pocket and squinted, lasering the door with his eyes. He remained absolutely motionless, blocking out the gunfire streaking around him. After a few more seconds, he bowed his head, crushing his eyes shut in deep, quick thought. His face creased with strain and his teeth gritted. Ron glanced at him nonplussed as Jonathan mouthed silently, writing invisible numbers and equation signs into his palm with a finger. He paled slightly as the scribbles on his palm became faster and more complicated-looking. "Oh-kaay," he said at last, opening his blue eyes. Without a word, he whipped around and slid down the pile, gesturing Ron to follow.

After waiting for Simms to finish tending Dr. Director, he waggled him, Matt, and Oliver over. Ron hung around within earshot.

"OK guys, here's the sitch, to borrow Kim's phrase," Jonathan said, "We've got a band of shocked quartz running around the perimeter of the door, roughly three feet out from the frame. All my heat put together couldn't hope to bring _that_ down. However, there's a weaker sandstone-shale aggregate sandwiched between the quartz and the door. If I bomb the quartz with enough power and a properly shaped charge, the quartz, because it is denser, will refract the shock all the way around the door. At the proper resonate, the aggregate will collapse, taking the opening along with it." He paused, studying the men's faces. "…Oliver, I'd like you to place the charge, because between you and Matt, you have the most experience."

Oliver's jaw bulged slightly as he clenched his teeth. Wordlessly, he tilted his head forward an inch.

"Once in position, place the bomb I'm going to make flat against the rock band on the left side of the door. It's rosy quartz; can't miss it. The other junk's a sorta gray-brown. Make sure the arrow is pointing toward the wall…OK, now," said Jonathan, scrounging through his pack, "This is the detonator." The detonator was a small, black, plastic rectangle roughly two by three inches. A circular red pushbutton rose out of the lower third. Two screw-adjust wire terminals projected from the far edge. Digging in a chest pocket, Jonathan pulled out two six-foot wires, one red and one blue, that intertwined with each other. Roughly a foot from each end, they separated. At one end the plastic coating was stripped off, simply exposing the brass, and at the other each wire connected to a thick, three-inch-long metal needle. "Setup is easy. All you have to do is plug the needles – which are blasting caps, by the way – in as far as they can go and then wrap the red wire around the red-coated terminal and the blue wire onto the blue-coated terminal." He broke off, grinning. "Whatever you do, don't cut the red wire."

Oliver chuckled.

"Anyway, once you've got it fused, all you have to do is press the red button. There's a ten-second delay. I highly recommend that you take advantage of the opportunity," he said airily, purposely overusing euphemisms. "Do you got all that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good man," butted in Simms. "We'll give you as much fire support as we can afford."

"Thank you, sir."

The little discussion broke apart. While Simms arranged defensive positions, Jonathan immediately set to work constructing the charge. Gathering together twelve bricks of C4, he ripped off the red paper wrappers to expose the pasty plastique beneath. Squashing and massaging the explosive until it reached a doughy consistency, he formed the blob into a steep right triangle, the longest leg extending upward. Using a Sharpie, he scrawled a crude, upward-pointed arrow on the hypotenuse, indicating that the tall side was to go against the wall. Finally, he swirled two dots on the thickest part of the bomb with the permanent marker.

"That's where the detonators go," he explained, "There's a small bit of gunpowder in the needles, which when ignited by the electric surge, sets off the primary explosive… Oliver, you know what a tamped charge is, right?"

"I grew up in a West Virginia mining town, sir!"

"Ah, no problems then," Jonathan said jovially, over the sound of Wilson blasting away at an attempted enemy charge.

Simms hurried over to them. "Quick's the words and sharp's the action; this would be the time for him to go."

"You ready?"

Oliver swallowed hard and nodded.

"OK," said Ben, "Go out the left of our position and stick to cover. As you get to the rear, angle toward the center, keeping your head down. There's a bunch of shell holes and tossed-up rubble near the door and their center has weakened. If we give 'em enough heat, you should be able to get behind their lines long enough to set the charge."

Jonathan handed Oliver the bomb. The stocky man went to the left edge of their protection and tensed, ready to spring. Those that were able took positions along the top of the mound. Simms manned the M249; Ron, toting an M4, joined Jonathan as a spotter; and Wilson, Michaels and Matt fanned out. Ben, because of his leg, stayed near the bottom and aimed from the right edge. Barkin cared for Director at the center.

Simms sucked in a deep breath and waited for a lull in the firing. Finding one, he roared, "Give them hell, boys! Oooo-raaaahhhh!!!" and commenced spraying the machine gun. Instantly, the American lines erupted in muzzle flashes, broken at intervals by bright flares as Wilson and Michaels belched off grenades.

Mesmerized, Ron watched as Oliver took off like a football player attempting a record 40, holding the C4 triangle under his arm like a linebacker. Rolling and scrambling between shell craters, using them like foxholes, he crossed the main expanse of the floor quickly. Finding a rough sort of passageway formed by parallel wreckage lines, he dashed toward the rear, avoiding friendly fire and pistolling terrorists as he came to them with his service .45. Pausing, he waited for fire support to eliminate fighters attempting to guard the door. After the SAW chewed apart a fire team attempting to bar the door and a grenade zoomed straight down the wide opening and detonated, resulting in screams issuing from the passageway, he turned and quickly gave his friends a thankful thumbs-up.

Breaking off from firing, Ron pressed the binoculars to his face. He watched eagerly as Oliver skidded to a halt beside the door and rammed the charge against the wall. Once in position, he started grabbing sandbags, rocks, boards, pretty much any heavy object he could find, and piling them on top of the C4.

"That's tamping," Jonathan explained, "By placing dense stuff on top of the charge, he's making it so the outward charge has a path of more resistance, which means that the main force of the blast will follow the path of least resistance, into the rock."

As Ron focused, he saw Oliver kneel, plunge the detonators into the block, and prepare to press the detonation button. "Hey, guys!" he yelled excitedly, "He's make it! He's really gonna –"

Ron's ears picked up a screaming noise, like a fired rocket, as he saw Oliver whip around on his heels and his eyes widened as his mouth opened and then the binocular's viewing screen evaporated in a solid blaze of white light.

Blinded, Ron tore the lenses away from his eyes and blinked desperately, trying to restore his vision. As he did, he crammed his eyes back through the binoculars.

His stomach turned over.

Oliver's body no longer existed above the waist. The legs and lower torso remained upright for a moment as the huge mesenteric artery surged twice, spraying blood into the air like geyser, before falling limply to the floor.

"Oh. my. _**GAWD!**_" Ron ripped the binoculars away from his face as his brain fogged over. He retched.

"NOOOOOO!" Matt attempting to break forward, desperately extending his arm toward his fallen brother. He was cut down a second later by a barrage of gunfire; Wilson and Michaels jumped on him as he fell, yelling, attempting to plug the gushing bullet holes. With a roar, Simms annihilated the cheering al-Qaeda RPG crew.

Jonathan grabbed Ron's dropped binoculars. His mouth twitched into a clenched hiss of grief and revulsion as he focused on the body. Ron himself had slumped halfway down the pile, where his was now doubled over in dry heaves.

_Now I know why Kim looked so haunted as she came over the berm._

Now I know why I didn't have any breakfast.

"It looks like – It looks like –" Jonathan choked, "It looks like…like… his body… absorbed all the force… of the explosion," he stopped to gag, "The… the bomb's… intact. Detonator's… Detonator's lying there on the floor next to," he hiccupped, "to him." He rubbed his forehead in restless thought. "What now...?"

Panicked cries rippled down the line. Below them, Ron heard Ben yelling, "He _what?!_ He WHAT?!"

Ron slid to the floor and stood wobbly, clutching his stomach. Jonathan followed and started pacing, murmuring, "An answer… I need an answer... Give me an answer!" He walked with his head slightly bent, fist cupped under his nose, aimlessly questing with his eyes. As he turned around and looked back at Ron, he froze.

_What… XYZ?_ Ron thought. He followed Jonathan's line of sight, to his pant leg. As he slowly looked down, he beheld Rufus sticking his head our of his thigh pocket, the rodent questing the air sleepily with his nose.

It took Ron a moment to connect. As he did, he snatched the mole rat from his pocket and cupped him in his hands. "NO… NO! YOU'RE NOT HAVING RUFUS! NOT RUFUS!" he screamed, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He turned halfway away from the man, further blocking Rufus from Jonathan's view.

"Ron, it's the only way!" Jonathan yelled back, "We can't send anybody else!"

"But Rufus is like… like… family to me and KP!" he choked, "You can't have him!"

Jonathan walked to within a foot of the teen and crossed his arms. "Do you want to fuckin' die here, Stoppable?" he asked calmly.

Ron, flabbergasted by the weight of the question, blinked at him, motionless.

Like lightening, Jonathan grabbed Ron by the arm and wrenched him around, dragging him toward him so their faces were only a few inches apart. "I ASKED you – Do you want to fuckin' DIE HERE, Stoppable?!"

Shocked, Ron stared at him with his mouth open, face drained of color. Meekly, he shook his head.

Jonathan released his arm with a thin, triumphant smile. "Good, because if you ever wanna get laid with that girlfriend of yours, I suggest you use the mole rat!"

Ron nodded slowly, his brain preoccupied with Jonathan's first words, which had abruptly opened up a whole new horizon of things he decided he really didn't have time to think over right now. "What… what does… Rufus have to do?" he asked softly.

"Nothing but scamper over there and press the red button. The bomb is all ready to go."

"…How does he escape the blast?"

"That's his problem." he said shortly. He paused. "Oh, and Ron…" he added as an afterthought.

"Yeah?"

"If this doesn't work… Just be sure to keep a bullet in reserve..... for.... later.... You've seen what al-Qaeda does to prisoners...."

"Whatever," Ron muttered, brushing away the comment. He kneeled and gently placed Rufus in the palm of his hand. The pink rat stood on its hind legs, looking at his master inquisitively. "Rufus, buddy," he said slowly.

"Mmm?" said Rufus, clasping his front paws together expectantly.

"I, uh, I… need you to do something for me… See, we're in a real funky sitch right now, gooier than week-old Chimberito cheese…"

"Oh, cheese!"

Ron let out a hollow laugh. "Oh, right… anyway, I need you to go out there," he pointed beyond their defenses, "And run across the room. Once you get to the other side, they'll be this real big door. Um, ignore anything you find over there," he felt a ping of nausea, "And look for this small black box with a red button on it. A red button. Just like in the Cheese Wheel!"

Rufus nodded, comprehending.

"Ok… and then… once you press it… you need to run toward me just as fast as you can. Got that? Get away from the red button just. as. fast. as. you. can," he said, punctuating his words with taps on Rufus's head.

The mole rat tilted his head to one side, thinking, before smiling and nodding intelligently.

"That's a goooood naked mole rat…!"

Rufus balanced on his shoulders as Ron walked slowly back to Simms, Jonathan and Ben. "OK… I'm ready…" he trailed off.

Simms nodded curtly. "Go for it. Good luck, Rufus."

Scrambling to the top of the pile, Ron paused to kiss his friend on the forehead. "Come back to me, okay?" he murmured, voice cracking. Then he pulled his arm back like a baseball player as Rufus curled into an aerodynamic ball. With a torn yell, he heaved the rat and sent him flying through the air. Following though, he grunted painfully and grabbed at the bloodied bandage covering the small round hole in his right shoulder.

_Damn, and that was my burrito-folding arm…_

Squinting desperately, he saw Rufus hit the ground and begin running, flashing madly through the shell holes and bullet traces. He saw him reach the other side of the hall and approach the bomb.

An RPG impacted in the middle of the floor. Ron threw up an arm to protect his face from a spray of lethal rock shrapnel. When he lowered it, Rufus, the bomb, and enemy lines had vanished behind an iron curtain of smoke, dust, and ash.

The Chamber  
11:19 AM

The lioness stalked to and fro before her wounded prey, cautiously searching, probing. Narrowed to catlike slits, her green eyes dug for a weakness, a failing; a single opening with which to take advantage. She tactfully kept her distance. A man cornered and desperate equaled erratic and dangerous.

The prey's black eyes, also narrowed, tracked her. They betrayed the illusion of a broken body; showed that it remained cunning. Tricky. Powerful. Deadly. He followed her every move, every feint, every supple curve, mentally drinking in far more than just her limp and numerous shallow wounds. A kingpin unceremoniously ripped from his throne, he longed to give this usurper's windpipe a few good kicks.

Kim paused to wipe fresh blood from her busted lip. Her synthetic top clung tightly to her back, soaked through with sweat. The body water trickled down her exposed midriff and channeled down the trench of her spine to wet out the rear waist hem of her cargos and panties. Rivulets of sweat and blood intertwined and beaded down her temples and the curve of her gritted jaw. As she brushed darkened auburn hair out of her eyes with the back of a clenched fist, she reviewed the course of battle in her head.

After the first charge and hot, fast, furious punch-out, they became slower, deliberate, more cautious. Almost immediately, fight had devolved into its present state: a slow, grinding, bloody war of attrition. They were like two expert swordsmen clanging off each other, both so skilled that neither could land a decisive blow. Her punches were met by blocks; her kicks negated by skilled footwork. His spits to her face went unnoticed; his attempts to gouge her eyes met by crossed arms, with a crushing knee to the solar plexus as retribution. Kim discovered the hard way that Osama liked to file his fingernails into points. She had never seen anyone fight this dirty. Shego was a sparring partner compared to this.

She stopped pacing. Osama perked up like a wolf on high alert at the change in routine, preparing himself for another attack. Ignoring the screech in her tendons, Kim shifted her weight to her flexed left leg. With a deliberate slowness, she scraped the toe of her right leg before her in a semicircle, as if drawing a taunting line in the sand. The rubber tread shushed across the metal floor like chalk on a blackboard.

_It shouldn't *be* this hard!_ she thought through lightly clenched teeth. _He should've gotten his butt kicked by now!_

Osama had actually gained the upper hand during the first part of the battle. It was, Kim grudgingly noted, partly her own fault. She continued to use traditional martial arts; it had always worked with Shego, anyway. The terror lord, seeing the obvious futility of going toe-to-toe with perhaps the best fighter in the world, took the route that every outclassed underdog must eventually take: dirty as mud retaliation. Meanwhile, Kim was unwilling to stoop to his vicious level, wanting to maintain her own sense of morals and dignity. Inherently resistive to changes in her time-tested strategy, reluctant to revise tactics that had worked each time, every time. Until now.  
And so she found the playing field leveled, and herself in the same position as any government, from the British in 1776 to the U.S. Army in the mid-2000's, who has ever tried to fight a lopsided foe.

But this was a battle to the death; a battle of lasting; a battle of bleed-dry attrition. The simple resilience and vitality of her youth, Kim's unexpected weapon, inevitably twisted the fight in her favor. She limped; Osama's face resembled a chunk of tenderized raw meat. At current, he propped against the same spot of wall he had at the beginning of the fight, placed there by another whistling punch. An extensive web of light cracks slithered up the thin coating of drywall behind him. They could have only been put there by repeated impacts to the same place.

He rolled slightly to ease pressure on a large abrasion on his leg. Kim sensed an opportunity at last to end the fight, bent low, and silently charged. Osama saw her coming out of the corner of his eye. He twisted onto his back, bracing, a hellbent snarl ripping across his face. Surprise lost, Kim vaulted into the air with a strained yell. Airborne, she revolved in a drawn-out spinning fly kick, her striking leg flung out flat by the centrifugal force, her dormant leg bent under the hamstring. She intended to piledrive into his chest. Snarling, Osama spiked his leg upward to intercept her with a vicious kick to the crotch. Kim's eyes widened and she frantically terminated the original attack midair. Jerking her shoulders, she managed to alter her final trajectory, clawing the air like Wile E. Coyote over a void. Crashing into him, her femur took the brunt of impact. As their bodies contacted, a sharp _crack!_ emanated from her thigh. Her lower half came to a sudden stop and her torso snapped forward. Kim used the force to drive a double-fisted slam into his chest before pushing herself away with the remaining energy of the attack and backflipped out of range.

As she shifted her stance, an arrowhead of pain exploded from her right leg and traced up her spine. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the leg and wiggled it. She heard a faint tinkling, grinding sound.

Her tongue jumped to the roof of her mouth. She froze, staring at her thigh cargo pocket, heart stopped fit to burst. Slowly, hesitantly, she dipped her hand below the flap and withdrew the shаttered, crumbling remains of the Kimmunicator.

The blue Lexan casing just below the screen was crushed in, almost touching the rear of the PDA. Slivers of broken plastic crackled away from the impact crater, flaking away in her hand. Keys dangled from their sockets, held from falling by their sensor ribbons. A spiderweb of icy fissures sparkled across the black, dead screen, oozing clear LCD fluid.

Her final link to the outside world was gone.

It had been her favorite one. After countless tries, Wade had found just the right combination of gadgets and civilian comforts. It was an oddly workable combination of _CSI_ and iPod. The comprehensive list of Interpol's Most Wanted and her entire, extensive collection of MP3s were loaded side-by-side into the machine.

Kim felt an inordinately powerful surge of rage boil in her chest and clamp around her throat. She stared at the destroyed computer in her palm, breath coming harder, deeper, quicker. Her hand and body began to shake involuntarily from the building energy. Her vision clouded over in a haze of red. She knew she was overheating. A broken Kimmunicator was no big, really; hadn't she lost several over the years? Wade stashed every one of his device's specs in his hard drives; he could make her another one, couldn't he? And the MP3 files could be re-downloaded, right? Why this inexplicable pulse of anger?

It was because, she realized, the crushed device represented more than just wires and batteries. It symbolized all the crushed hopes and dreams and shredded families she had witnessed firsthand around the globe, run to ruin by organizations like al-Qaeda and its ilk. It represented crushed towers, crushed airplanes, crushed and mangled bodies, torn apart by false ideology. It personified the roar of broken, tangled emotions she'd felt over the past few days – the attacks, the shock, the gun. It represented her optimism, innocence, ideals, and love of fellow man crushed and left to die in the hallways behind her. This latest indignity, a broken electronic device, simply served as the tripwire.  
Still, she knew she was majorly overreacting. Why?

_You're narced out, that's why,_ her brain told her matter-of-factly, utterly disconnected from her Hulk-like fury.

"Narced out" was her term for nitrogen narcosis, a potentially deadly condition present in deep-sea diving. Ordinarily, at sea level, the nitrogen that makes up a large portion of the atmosphere is carried easily out of the body. Water pressure, however, causes the nitrogen to dissolve into the bloodstream. In addition to causing the bends, the concentrated nitrogen interferes with higher thinking, motor skills, and emotional control. The effects snowball as depth increases. Below 200 feet, the nitrogen supercharges the feelings and causes radical bouts of fear, joy, sadness, excitement, or depression. Kim herself compared it to Moodulation. A diver can easily become blindly fixated on or panic about trivial matters such as a dropped ten-dollar knife or a silt blowup, while ignoring life-and-death issues such as tangled, sharp wreckage or a leaking regulator.

Kim had experienced the narcosis effect herself while investigating a suspiciously efficient cruise ship sinking. All passengers and crew thankfully survived, and Kim's dive team was able to search the ship almost the moment after it hit the bottom and the sediment cleared, without having to wait for search & rescue. While at the dock, she had overheard a little girl bawling about her most prized possession, a stuffed bear, which she had been forced to leave onboard. In the bowls of the liner, some 250 feet down, Kim had discovered a teddy bear tightly wedged in debris. She became enthralled with extricating it, as if the entire mission, even her life, depended on returning this bear to that child. An ignored slit in her oxygen tube, pierced by mangled overhead girders, caused her air supply to drain faster than expected. Her oblivious efforts in the wreckage didn't help matters. By chance, Ron had found her, and, at risk to his own life, dragged her to safety.

But now there was no Ron to bring her back from the brink, to keep her grounded.

_I'm narced out,_ Kim thought, trying to sift and analyze her emotions. Her next thought hit her like a cinderblock. _...And I don't care._ It brought her to a full, stunned stop. She was shocked at herself for even thinking it. Then carefully, frightened, as if handling a bomb, she slowly repeated it. _I… I don't have to… care… anymore… I don't have to care anymore! Idon'thavetocareanymore!_

The revelation infused her with a giddy, heady, dangerous recklessness, something she hadn't felt since she kicked Shego into that electrical tower.

Kim contemplated her mind's statement, an odd bubble rising in her chest.

She no longer had Ron's presence, his "burden," to keep her in control. He was as good as dead for all the stability he could give her now. In fact, Kim suddenly forced herself to consider the very real possibility that Ron was already dead, eyes blank, lying in a pool of his own blood.

She no longer had the specter of parental opinion or punishment to bridle her. She was 19, a legal adult. And they were several thousand miles away across the Atlantic, to boot.

She no longer had to worry about collateral. Property damage. Injuring innocent civilians. It all didn't matter.

The broken Kimmunicator now represented something else – liberation from outside restraint. No one to judge her, to condemn her; no one to be appalled or shocked at her behavior. No incessant network cameras, no uppity pundits constantly picking apart her missions on national television, giving their Monday-morning quarterback pronouncements of what she should and should not have done.

She was in a sealed room with one of the modern age's most twisted men at her feet, whose forces she had been periodically fighting since his rise to international prominence six years ago. A corny motivational poster, "**Character** - doing the right thing, even if nobody is watching and nobody will ever know," flashed briefly before her eyes, but she brushed it aside.

He had targeted her personally. She had full right to little payback. Saving lives, a cornerstone of almost every one of her previous missions, was currently not a concern.

_I'm in a frickin' Army strike force,_ she thought, caught up in a blind, unsteady rush, _Funded by the frickin' U.S. government! I can do whatever I want!_

With that, all the conscious and unconscious barriers were gone. The dark spot in the Yang of her Yin-and-Yang gleefully erupted.

She crushed the Kimmunicator parts between her fingers as she curled them into a fist. Plastic shards and wires dribbled to the floor. With piercing eyes, she slowly turned her head upward to gaze at bin Laden. She saw him recoil slightly, a look of fear stamped across his face. In a ping of horror, she realized his reaction gave her a flutter of twisted pleasure.

"...You... _bitch!_" she snarled in a low, slow, mechanical, inhuman voice. She let the statement hang before suddenly springing on him with a yell. Like a predator.

Like a lioness.

"Ack!" Osama held up his hands at the last second to protect his face, but it was no use. With something between a roar and a sob, Kim tore into him, sinking her fists wildly into all the flesh she could reach. If before the pressure cooker had ruptured from the steam, now it completely detonated, sending metal shards and plastic handle flying.

She felt her hands growing numb, her vision going blurry from either tears or sweat. In what could be best described as an out-of-body experience, she felt her consciousness slip away from her body and step back, observing the attack a few feet away, as if a bystander.

_Wha-! What are you doing! What is this? What IS this?!_ her mind stammered in horror as it watched her physical form pummeling the muffledly-yelling body beneath it. _How is *this* in me? Is this even me? Where in the heck did *this* come from?!_

She answered her own question.

This was more than terrorism, April 2007. This was release. This was total-body release. This was eight-plus years of subconscious anger pouring out all at once. Eight years and more of attempted perfection. A lifetime of being the good girl. Being forced to miss school dances, sporting events, cheerleading practices because some idiot forgot to fill his gas tank before crossing the Gulf of Mexico and the Cost Guard was tied up. She had never seen a school function through in its entirety. The supershoe incident and the Diablos came to mind. This was scrambling to cram homework and school projects on redeye flights while wrestling with massive jet lag. This was wedging community service, extra curriculars into an ironbound schedule. Years of enduring Bonnie's taunts and jibes and willing herself to turn the other cheek. Enduring the envy, animosity, jealously, sexism of countless guys, with Ron, Josh, and a select other few the exception. They would never have the balls to do half of what she did on a daily basis, but they were just waiting for her to fail. Prove to everybody that this whole "caring" thing would never work. Stop trying to break the mold. They wanted her to shut up and sit down.  
This was watching, on CNN and BBC, her efforts erased almost immediately by paranoid zealots and totalitarian governments. By now, helping the world was like trying to dig a hole in soupy sand. A game of godamn whack-a-mole.  
This was eight years of Shego's needles and slanders, which became only more spiteful after the mercenary discovered Kim's new relationship with Ron. This was Drakken. Dementor. Monkey Fist. Cuts. Abrasions. Falls. Stress fractures. Twisted ankles. Death rays. Gunpoint. Plasma. Acid. Bombs. All the cheesy supervillian staples. The emotional trauma of near-death, torture, dismemberment repeated over and over and over.

The baddies only had to win once. She had to win every time.

Be the good guy, Possible, she was always told. Do the right thing, Possible. Control yourself. Control yourself because the media will _rip you apart_ if you don't. Take the fall, Possible. Pull the punches, Possible. Hold back, Possible. Let the other guy win, Possible. Step down, Possible. Turn the other cheek and act like it doesn't bother you, Possible. Lead by example, Possible. Role model. You must have academic and physical perfection twenty-four-seven. No breaks. No downtime. Perfection.

She now understood why Shego loved her job.

And Kim had absorbed it, tucked it away, ignored it, shoved it down, carried it all, without realizing it. She filed it back in the distant corners of her memory to rot away. The strain periodically attempted to vent itself in geysers once Kim's controls were pushed to the limit. The gator farm in Florida. Slugging Drakken at Bueno Nacho headquarters. Crushing Shego into that tower. Scared senseless by her own power, she had attempted to clamp down, seal away the anger, to prevent anything like it from happening again.

But now… now, everything was rushing out like sand in a warehouse with a hole in the bottom. The recesses of her brain were in a painful, terrifying process of cleansing. The pressure had built up past tolerance. And she would not, could not, stop until it was all gone.

Her consciousness snapped back into her body as she heard Osama yelling something above the wet thud of her blurred hands and feet.

"Too… bad…. yaahhhggg! …about… your… house!" he screeched between the blows, blood gushing from his nostrils with every word, "If… we'd… eeeiiiiahhh! … known… there… was… a… bitch… inside…, we… would've… aimed… lower!"

Kim, amazed and grudgingly impressed by the sheer impudence of the man, let up from the attack and rocked back slightly, straddling him. Blood now gunked the sandpaper-like tread of the knuckles and metacarpals of her gloves.

"You really aren't helping your case, you know," she said exasperatedly, incredulous.

It was true. Osama's face was now almost completely unrecognizable. Blunt trauma. Hamburger meat. His nose was almost certainly broken. Words spluttered out between cracked, swollen lips. Two brilliantly colored black eyes were already rising and threatening to block his vision. From the way he shifted painfully, Kim was sure he had massive, traumatic bruising beneath his robes. She wondered briefly about the chances of internal bleeding, seeing his right hand sunk like Napoleon's beneath his robes.

Through the pain, he glared straight up at her with the most intense hatred Kim had ever felt. Taking a deep breath, he launched into a flying rant. "Y-you… you are foul! You are wicked! You pollute the Earth with your very breath! You have violated the Blessed, Blessed Sanctum of the Most Holy! Allah will burn your soul in hell for this, you slut! Ten thousand times a curse upon you!" He spat in her general direction. "You can do nothing against me! My death will be a signal! A _fatwa_! Every truly pious Muslim will rise up to erase your blasphemy! From this point on, you are a marked dog! You will not breathe a month! A week! It is the duty of all those faithful to the Prophet to purify your bloodline, eliminate your abhorrent excuses for family and fri–!"

A staggering backhand slap cut his vituperation short. His head snapped to one side, bottom of his jaw jerked sideways, saliva flying from his mouth. Kim followed through on the blow, now able to match his look of fury. Fresh blood dotted the ridge of her knuckles. Wrenching his face to front, she bent over him, shoving her face within a handsbreadth of his.

"Bull," she spat. "Bull. I'm not majoring in International Diplomacy for nothing, dammit! I've read the Koran back to front and gone over the interpretations with a half-dozen Islamic scholars. So I know what I'm saying when I tell you you've got it all wrong. The things you people have _done…!_ You've, you've," she spluttered, losing words in her resurging anger, "It's been said before, and now I'll say it bluntly my way: You've rammed it up the ass! You thugs have twisted your own religion like a wet towel! I'm an American carrying an international visa, buddy; remember that… I've lived on both sides. Do you have any idea what I've seen? Do you have any inking of what you've _done?!_ Do you think it doesn't pain me when I hear rednecks swapping jokes, talking about "them dirty Ay-rabs" and how the "Mus-lins should go back to where they 'yall from"? That it doesn't bug me when my own classmates laugh as they pantomime pressing detonators and shout "Jihad!" as we're learning about Islam in history class? Ever seen a girl trounced behind the school for wearing a headscarf and been helpless to stop it?"

She broke off.

"….Knowledge sucks, you know that?" she said bitterly, "The Islam I've learned about was once the scientific leader of the world. It was beautiful. It was healthy. It was innovative. Forward-thinking. Tolerant. Open. An-an-and now what! What's happened since Suleiman the Great, eh? It could have continued, you know; Islam could have been the light of the world. But no. No… Now that same religion is now used as a front to try and drag the modern world back to some chauvinistic male fantasy world from the 12th century!"

Kim paused to gulp air, trying to compose herself.

"…And I've crisscrossed the Mideast enough times to make Aladdin look like a tourist. Just as many preconceptions about Westerners as Westerners have about Middle Easterners… At least the Iranian general public seems to get that, no matter what their airhead of a President spouts out. Although, I think Iran may be in hot water within a few days…My thanks to Zawahiri. You really shouldn't keep all your hot papers in one place, you know."

She saw Osama slowly mouth the words, "_Oh, shit._"

With a half-grin, she continued. "I've worn hijabs and more in Muslim countries out of respect. Personally, I don't much care for it, but I admire people who wear them out of conviction. If that's the way she decides to interpret the passages, fine by me. What really ticks me off, though, is when it's forced on people through some ambiguous Koran passage that you guys twist into iron law. I've always wondered…" she asked rhetorically, "why it was only –women- who have to wear _black_ cloaks and headdresses in the hottest parts of the world? While the men wear white, hmmmm? It's because you're scared. Deathly scared. Because nothing is more frightening than a woman who speaks her mind, right? Acknowledging the "fairer" sex can have power, or this thing men perceive to be power, would mean having to update in more things than weapons, right? I'm not denying that Christianity and the other big religions haven't had some majorly bad screw-ups, standing in their own pools of blood, but… but… c'mon! Who's making all the headlines these days!?  
And the funny thing is, you're not clinging to _the_ Koran; you're clinging to centuries-later interpretations of the Koran. I'd bet Muhammad would be really ashamed of what you've done with his words… Heck, and all this really isn't about the Koran! It's about this stupid, macho, survivalist tribalism! Tribal mentality, glossed over with cannibalized religious verses! Everybody's done it! It's last year's CB jeans, only now in bleached cobalt instead of faded-out azure…!"

By now, Kim was just rambling, more focused on untangling her own thoughts than launching a diatribe. Surprisingly, Osama wasn't stopping her.

"…But you don't really need the Americans or the Great Satan or the Evil West or whatever to destroy your societies," she said resignedly, "You're doing it yourselves. Sunni vs. Shiite… God, Iraq was horrible… You would've been able to put up a much better resistance to the "corrupting occupiers" if you hadn't been so insistent on calling the other sect "scum of the world" and cleaning out each other's ears with electric drills…. And yet, 99% of the Muslims I've met, both sides, aren't like your "ideals" or our fears… Just like everybody else, they're trying to eek out somewhere in the middle, only they have to cope with stares and car bombs. And yet you lozbos taint everybody… And it's not going to change until the middle says, 'I've had it.' …Sheesh, it's enough to make _anybody_ agnostic…"

With her final comment, Osama fired back up again. "Atheist?! You swine! You Godless freak! You filthy little motherfucker--!"

"I didn't even know that last one was physically possible…" she said bemusedly, "And, look, you ferociously misquoted me –"

"You turned away from Allah! You shall be punished in the fires of Hell for eternity! Your name hath been tainted! Shame! Shame upon your whole family!"

"Man, you are such a headache…There's just no getting through to you, is there?" Kim said wearily, rubbing her temples. "All of that, all of what I just said, it was worthless, wasn't it?"

"Lies! All lies! Lies of the Infidel! We alone hold the keys to the kingdom of Heaven! There is no questioning the Holy Word of the Prophet Muhammad! The infidels and the Godless and wicked and those who turn away from the Submission must be dealt with by the sword! This is Allah's word! It is the only word! It is the only way!"

"_SHUT UP!_"

In a spasm of rage, Kim yanked her pistol out of its holster. Flicking on the laser-dot sight as she drew, she leveled toward bin Laden's forehead. She was panting again, chest shallowly rising and falling, teeth clenched, the gun rattling in her shaking hand. "I've had it up to here with you. To _here_. Your hate. Your bigotry. Your intolerance. I've had it. This ends right here." The barrel stopped shaking as her arm stiffened. She glared down at the once-proud terrorist leader, now semi-prone at her feet. "So now, out of a five-shot magazine, I've got… -" she suddenly broke off, trying to mentally recount her shots and failing. At once she realized the beautiful irony of situation… and smiled. She might never get another opportunity quite like this again… It felt so _right_… The pop-culture gods would kill her if she passed this one up…

"Now…" she breathed, letting the words melt in her mouth before letting them go, savoring the moment, experiencing an almost sensual thrill, "Now… I know what you're thinking, _punk_. You're thinking, did she fire five shots, or only four? Well, to tell you the truth, the honest-to-goodness truth, I've forgotten, myself, in all this excitement… If I did, if I pull this trigger and nothing happens… I'll make _sure_ you land in the _worst_ hellhole at Gitmo before I haul you up to get the justice you deserve for what you've done…."

…But if not…" Kim pulled the hammer back with a loud, clear, menacing click, "If not… I'm sure Allah will want to have a good, long chat with you about a little word called "context."  
…And before you open your mouth, you've got to remember – I'm holding a .40 Magnum, one of the most powerful handguns in the world, capable of blowing your head clean off. So, you've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?"

"I am not afraid to die!" Osama boasted. "Allah will bless me above all others for carrying out his work against the Infidel! I am a true son of Islam!"

Kim snorted derisively. "Ha. Good one. Sorry to reuse the ol' cliché, but, really, you're about as Muslim as Hitler was Christian."

"Great was his work against the scourge of true believers, the Jews!" He smiled, revealing a line of uneven, yellow-tinged teeth. "You can do nothing against me, slut! My body will be gone, but my followers will carry on my crusade! I will be a martyr! My death will be a rallying cry for holy warriors around the world! You think 9/11 and 4/23 were bad… just you wait!"

"OK, one, if you haven't watched some real news recently, you're pretty much a figurehead. Two, you must've already forgotten that we will find the plan folders. And three," she broke off laughing, "You?! A martyr?! Paa-leeeze... If you haven't noticed, you, the most virulent, bigoted, destructive, intolerant, sexist man alive today, the headshot of the world's most powerful anti-Western terrorist group, just got his ass _handed_ to him by an American... teenage... _girl!_"

He gasped.

"Yeeaaahh, you'd better believe it! This ain't gonna look too good for publicity, is it! It'll be near-impossible for your PR people to give this one a spin! *Nobody's* going to join you after this! You guys are going to look like laughingstocks, pal!"

She had finally gotten through. As the truth sunk in, his face slowly lost color. His mouth fell open and he looked up at her, eyes wide, the expression shocked. Kim felt his body go limp under her. The fire was gone.

"How… how… can this be…?" he stammered weakly, lost, utterly crumpled.

Kim laughed insanely and bent over him. "How?! I'm Kim Possible! Get it through your head – I. can. do. anything!"

"Including die!"

Before Kim could even comprehend what had happened, Osama wrenched a four-inch dagger from beneath his robes and slammed it to the hilt into her bared midriff. His hand, sunken Napoleon-style in his cloak, had been a ruse. He had been gripping that knife all along.

Kim gagged, doubled, stumbled backward, and fell to her knees. As she moved, a wave of incredible pain split her in two. Total agony. Yelling, she clawed one-handed at the protrusion from her abdomen. She felt like her stomach had detonated; felt as if she's swallowed a lit grenade; as if she'd been run through the backbone with a lance. Rays of white-hot fire flooded away from the impact site, paralyzing her spine and brain. Spreading her clutched, now-bloodstained hand, she saw the synthetic rubber grip of a double-edged dagger sticking from her middle, just above the bellybutton. She blacked out momentarily from the realization and the pain.

When it cleared and she looked up, she found bin Laden rearing back his foot with a terrible, triumphant snarl, aiming to kick her away and smash the hilt in deeper.

Groggy and on the verge of passing out again, she realized that through the whole thing, her gun hand had remained motionless and rock steady, as if gimbaled. The laser dot still trained squarely between Osama bin Laden's eyes. Through a dim, swimming haze, one thought lodged firmly in her numb brain.

_Get him._

"So not… the drama..... for..... me," she gasped.

Leg still cocked and poised, Osama's sneer flickered slightly, a surprised, perturbed twitch crossing his face.

"...Call me beep me from Hell."

She pulled the trigger.

Osama retained his shocked expression as his head slammed backward, the bullet meeting the back of his skull and the wall at the same time. No explosion of brain matter out the back. The slug pinned to the wall and prevented him from slumping. His mouth fell open and his eyes, still open, forever open, glazed over and rolled back.

He would look surprised for eternity.

Silence.

Kim let the smoking gun drop from numb fingers. It hit the ground and bounced away. After it came to rest, the magazine box ejected halfway from the sideways grip. Empty. Apart from the drip-drip of her own blood, the room was dead silent. After the heat of the confrontation and blasting gunshot, the total quiet pounded on her eardrums. Kim clutched at the knife in her midriff, attempting to tug it out. She weakly grasped the shaft with both hands and gave it a small test tug. A roiling wave of angry red pain forced her to stop with a low moan.

_You idiot._ Her mind was now perfectly clear. The madness and rage were completely gone, replaced by a dry, clinical, indifferent voice. _You idiot. You let your emotions get in the way. You let anger take control. You foolish girl, bending waaay over him, yelling in his face, giving him the perfect opportunity to do exactly this… All your years of training… and now what? You lost control, and now you're dying. Dead._ Gently, the voice began to drift out, like a radio losing batteries. _You and Ron have seen all the Bond films… You and Ron have __**lived**__ all the Bond films… You know you should have finished him when you first came in. Not as much fun, maybe, but much more logical._

Yeah…but… it was… worth it…

Feeling a dizzy rush to her head, she swayed on her knees. Looking down, she distantly saw blood gushing around the silver knife blade. Fumbling, she pulled out a roll of clotter bandage from a hip pocket and tore off a small patch. Her fingers felt stiff and numb, as if she'd been out in the cold too long. Whimpering, she prodded the halfhearted bandage slightly into the wound. A spasm; she bent in half again, feeling a wrench to her gut, the blade edge tickling things inside her. The bandage roll popped from her grasp and unspoolled away across the floor. Kim watched it dimly, almost disinterestedly, as if whacked with morphine. The cloth closest to her started to soak up a red liquid spreading on the ground around her. She made to reach for it, but her muscles suddenly felt slow and sluggish. She was tired, oh so tired. The pain was almost gone, just a deep throbbing now. With a groan, she eased to her hip, holding up her torso with her left arm.

It wasn't until then, in the silence, that Kim realized the absence of something she'd previously ignored. Tiny, virtually imperceptible vibrations in the floor, representing bomb blasts and explosions several floors below, were gone.

_Ahhhh...._ Kim thought, vaguely happy, _We've won…_ Her arm was now rubbery, unable to support her weight. She felt her body, then her head, gently tap the steel-plated floor. Her perspective shifted sideways, now a few inches above the ground. She could see the dust bunnies floating on the dark floor under the desk. Her body curled into a slight fetal position. With a great effort, as if through slush, she shifted her hand over the wound to slow the copious bleeding and hold in her guts.

The world suddenly blazed in lurid, psychedelic colors and spots. Kim watched with a small thrill of childlike wonder; some of the hot, garnish hues were beautiful. Positively otherworldly.

Then her peripheral vision closed in, and everything swirled into blackness.

Three minutes later came pounding footsteps; loud, panicked voices. The door shuddered and cracked under one, two running kicks. On the third, it blasted inward, smashed clean off its hinges, falling flat to the floor with a crash.

....In skidded Ron, the surviving Marines on his heels.

April 26, 2007  
United States  
Washington D.C.  
White House  
West Wing  
3:01 AM EST

A lone Secret Service agent leaned against a tree trunk in a copse of maples, fifty feet from the West Wing exterior. Light morning haze filtered through the trees under a soft, clear moon. Diffused blackness. Usually, light drifted from the high, open windows of the President's office, chasing away some of the gloom. Tonight, however, the windows of the building were cold and black, covered with heavy blast panels.

Pure white moonlight played with the shadows, turning the wood into a ghostly mass of light and dark bars. Nothing moved. The area around the complex had been cordoned off for blocks, so even the ubiquitous grumble of D.C. traffic had vanished. A solitary high-pitched siren wafted in from crosstown, mingling with the crickets before fading into the night. In the silence, water in the presidential pool next to him tickled at its concrete sides. On the other side of the trees, a cicada screamed dryly. It was followed by another, another, until a whole chorus screeched tone-deaf into the morning. Then, just as suddenly, they successively broke off, leaving only their haunting calls to echo in the agent's mind.

A knot in the tree prodded him in the back. He shifted, scattering small pieces of bark across the shoulders of his expensive black sport jacket. Taking a long, slow gulp from a matte-finish thermos of coffee, he rubbed his forehead tiredly. The entire Service had been on twenty-four hour alert since the attacks; he'd only gotten four hours of sleep yesterday.

_The things we do for honor… Ah, well. At least the pay's good…_

He looked up at the moon. It peeked through a shifting gauze of thin clouds, scattering luminescent beams. The USSS man's eyes slowly adjusted. Deciding he no longer needed night-vision goggles, he tilted them onto his forehead. Blinking to acclimate, he massaged the back of his neck.

Exhaustion faded slightly as the caffeine hummed through his veins. Shifting again, he glanced through gaps in the trees. Across the South Lawn, he could see the gaping crater, lit up by orange worklights twinkling in the faint mist. The light glowed off florescent yellow police tape surrounding the hole and the reflective vest of a lone nightshift perimeter guard. Even now, a thin line of gray smoke twisted up from center of the impact site, lit up by the floodlights before losing itself into the night. White steam, similar to a lake's in winter, hovered over the churned ground, a result of cold air meeting the warm mass of upturned deep earth.

A breeze wafted in over US 1, dispelling the moist, balmy April air with a chill. Water in the air condensed into dew, settling on the agent's forehead and bare hands. He shivered, yanking on the lapels of his coat. The gusts bent the crater smoke in his direction. He crinkled his nose. The haze now reeked of charred rubber and burnt earth.

Stiffening, the wind chattered the chain-link fence surrounding the pool. The galvanized steel links rattled hollowly like a hall of skeletons. Startled, the agent jumped, now fully awake. He was trained, of course, no greenhorn, but there was something about this he really didn't like…

In the inky blackness of the trees, a twig cracked. Expertly, he knew that it was human-made and to his 10 o'clock. Hands now slightly clammy, he hoisted his service Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun to his shoulder and flicked off the safety.

"United States Secret Service!" he called into the night.

"Relax, Finnegan, it's me," a weary voice drifted back. Out of the woods floated a Caucasian head and hands, the black Secret Service jacket still swallowed up by the gloom.

_Creepy…_ Relieved, Finnegan lowered the MP5 from his shoulder and safed it. "…Sorry. Can't be too careful."

"'Course not… That's our job," said the second agent, coming stand by him. He carried a Remington 870 pump-action. He stood from a moment, free hand stuffed into his coat pocket, rocking on his heels, breathing deep lungfuls of night damp through his nose. Satisfied, he pulled a box of cigarettes out of a breast pocket and stuck a cancer stick in his mouth. "Want one?" he said, keeping the stick expertly balanced in his teeth and proffering the white box.

"No thanks, Bob… Don't smoke," said the junior agent.

"...Younger generation..." the senior agent muttered, lighting up. The Bic flame and flaring cigarette tip gleamed off his opaque sunglasses. He took a long draft and held it before letting the acrid smoke jet out through pursed lips.

_Smoking definitely looks cooler in the movies,_ Finnegan decided. _You don't have the smell._

Bob silently took a few more puffs. Smoke drooled out his nostrils. "Any activity?" he asked at last, pointing toward the darkened West Wing with his smoldering cigarette tip.

"Nothin', sir," said Finnegan, "And I've been standing here all night."

"Huh…" Bob said, leaning against a tree beside him. He cracked open his shotgun and began toying with the high-power shells. "I can't tell you myself," he continued slowly, nodding toward the presidential residence, "Even if I knew, but… I think there's something up. Rumors. Something major going down overseas…"

Finnegan digested his words. "Hope it's for our side…" he murmured, gazing toward the dark-cloaked façade.

Golden chandelier light blazed off the stark white walls of the Oval Office. Instead of streaming into the warm darkness beyond the mullion windows, it rebounded harshly off flat metal blast panels set into the frames. The brightness seemed even more surreal and bizarre at this time of night, colors overly garnish and bright.

_Or maybe I'm just tired…_ thought the President.

After the terrorist situation stabilized somewhat and agencies regrouped, his office was no longer needed as a makeshift command center. The DOD, DHS, and CIA moved their machines out. He'd been able to place most of his books back on their shelves, but he hadn't gotten the furniture or the murals back yet. As a result, the incandescents glared irritatingly off the curved walls. The rims of his eyes burned slightly and a headache boomed against his skull. Rubbing his cool palms soothingly over his hot face, Bush guessed he was developing a minor case of eye strain.

He swiveled his chair to face the square oak desk before him, built from the timbers of the HMS _Resolution_. On the cleared woodwork sat a satellite two-way radio. It linked directly to a similar device imbedded in Kim's strike team. He'd forced himself to get up at midnight to personally monitor their progress. But other than a quick message by Simms before the incursion, telling him they had arrived at the drop zone, the radio had been silent. Bush was growing worried. The "pace of success," as he called it, felt too slow. Without previous experience in dealing with a crack team of operatives, a three-hour radio silence did not seem like a good thing.

The lack of sleep buzzed him. His body, sensing that it wasn't going to sleep anytime soon, reacted with a flush of adrenaline. Bush now felt jumpy. Twitchy. Restless. Stretching in his fleece pajamas (tan, dotted with little mustangs, lassos, and golden sheriff stars), he drummed his fingers on the hardwood. The hollow, mindless ticking of a wall clock echoed back at him.

Before the slow tocking could get stuck in his head, the President cast about the room for a distraction. He gazed across the wide, desolate expanse of carpet emblazoned with the Great Seal. A ubiquitous Secret Service agent stood by the double oak doors across the room. Bush always studied this guard with interest when he came into Oval Office rotation. Although he was muscled and stocky, not a day over 29, his shock of flattop hair was bleached sheet white; a quirk of genetics.

Finding no other alternative, the President started up a conversation with the stony-faced Honor Guard Marine.

"Has there been any word of progress through the other networks?" Bush called out hopefully.

"No," the sentry answered with polite curtness.

"Anybody called in for a missile strike?"

"No."

"Has Cheney been informed of the situation?"

"Yes."

"Do you think they've got 'im?"

"Maybe."

"…A regular Cicero, you are," Bush grumbled under his breath, ending the conservation. The guard returned to attention, his back pencil-straight.

Antsy, the President nudged a large object nestled behind the swing-door on the front of the desk with his cowboy-boot slippers. Contacting it, he froze, thinking fast. He'd been working up his nerve, saving this up for a slow day. He glanced around. Nobody around except the guard.

_Might as well try now…_

Surreptitiously, he bent down and withdrew the object from the shadows. Sweeping the radio to the side, he clunked the circular object down on the desk and slowly lifted his hands away from its ceramic sides. Feeling a pang of unease, he settled back into the cushions of his overstuffed wingchair and churched his fingers, carefully studying his longtime foe.

A big bowl of mini pretzels.

He had steered clear of them after nearly suffocating on one in January 2002. Not a nibble. Having never actually served in the National Guard, he considered the aversion his own personal Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Still, after five years, he thought it time to move on.

Holding his tongue between his teeth, Dubya tentatively loosened the sheen of Saran wrap and placed the film carefully on his lap as a makeshift napkin. Instantly, the delicious smell of baked bread and salt boiled up toward him. His mouth watered slightly. He'd forgotten the aroma. Carefully picking through the pretzels, he selected a choice candidate and lifted it before his eyes. Like a connoisseur, he pinched it between his thumb and index, rotating it, examining it from all angles. He frowned, brow furrowed with consideration. The Decider deciding. The crunchy breaded bits were toasted golden brown. Small nodes of imbedded salt winked dully. A perfection of corporate culinary mass-production.

Across the room, the Marine watched the proceedings bemusedly out of the corner of an eye.

_What the…?_ he thought, letting a twitch of a smile flicker on the out-of-view side of his mouth. Remembering his duty, he wiped the grin off his face and snapped his eyes front. It was none of his business how weird the President acted out of media range.

Bush hovered the pretzel before his mouth, biting his lip. He eyed the snack warily, as if about to swallow a spoonful of molten lead.

_Awww, stop dawdlin…' Nobody lives forever and soforth and suchnot…_

Cautiously levering his mouth open, he extended his tongue, scrunched his eyes shut, and gingerly placed the pretzel into the center of his mouth. He snapped his teeth shut on it, not chewing, and flicked his eyes back and forth.

Nothing happened. Gays did not gain equal legal rights. Hillary Clinton did not cannonball through his office doors. Stem cell scientists did not suddenly discover a loophole in his Bible-thumper bill. Big Oil did not abruptly withdraw their payolas.

With growing confidence, he ground up the pretzel with his teeth and swallowed. No gagging. No passing out. No whacking the table edge. He had forgotten how addictive the mixture of dry and salty was. Suddenly ravenous, he picked out a small grouping and popped them down. Emboldened, he grabbed a large fistful and crammed them into his mouth, chewing happily. Another handful. Then another. Feeling picky again, he selected a single pretzel and fired it whole into his jaws.

At that moment, the silent radio on his desk erupted, practically dancing into the air.

A parade-field roar. The Gunny.

Startled witless, the President jumped as if electrocuted. He snapped bolt upright, slamming into the back of his chair. The whiplash catapulted the unbroken pretzel to the rear of his windpipe. It lodged. Bush felt a familiar paralysis to his throat. Lungs suddenly vacuums. His pupils constricted. He gagged, trying to breathe out. No air movement. Panicking, he banged frantically on the table to attract the guard, clutching his throat.

The sentry, sensing something wrong, pounded over and skidded beside the most powerful man on Earth. "…Mr. President? Mr. President! Can you speak, Mr. President!"

_What does it –look– like?!_ the President thought angrily, adamantly repeating a choking gesture.

Sizing up the situation, the Marine reacted and slammed a sideways fist into the small of Bush's back. The President heaved, gave an almighty cough, and fired the slimy, intact salty snack across his desk. It skidded to a halt at the opposite edge, leaving a sticky saliva trail like a slug.

_Note to self: Stay away from mini pretzels._

The paper-white Marine propped up the hacking President, leaning over, checking him down, deeply concerned. "Are…are you going to be okay, Mr. President, sir?"

"Y-yes… yes… Thank you. Thank you," he gasped, eyes watering. He cleared his throat and looked gratefully up at the Marine. "What's… What's your name, son?" he croaked.

"Paepur, sir. E. Paepur."

"Well, I owe a debt to you, Mr. Paepur. I'll be sure to stick a recommendation in somewhere for you, okay?"

"It was no problem, sir... Just doing my duty," the guard said with a slight bow. "Would you like me to remain here?"

"No, no... I'll be fine. ...Could you get me a glass of water, though?"

"Right away, sir." The Marine quickly strode from the room.

Bush at last turned his attention to the bouncing radio. "Re.. re…rep-OR-t, Gen-EN-eral," he coughed, still wheezing up pretzel dust. He absentmindedly picked up the bowl and balanced it with his fingertips like a basketball.

"...Success! Success! Mr. President, sir, Operation Phoenix Talon was a success!" Simms shouted in his characteristic bullhorn over the heavy bass thud of multiple helicopters behind him. "We have achieved termination of objective Omega-Zulu. Unfortunately, I must report an NGS-6 on potentially four operatives, and… finally… and… finally… s-sir…" the battle-hardened officer unexpectedly trailed off, voice breaking. "I-I feel it is… it is… my duty… t-to inform you that we have an… an… 11-44 on Alpha Prime. …I'm… sorry, sir…"

"What in the name of Daniel Boon's longjohns is this, man!" roughshod the President, "Flim-flam coded nonsense… A man can hardly understand what you're sayin…'" He dropped the sharp tone and picked up a fatherly one. "Son, I've got a bit of advice for yah – If you ever want to become a good or-ray-tor like me, you've gottta learn to cut out all this here double-talk and get right to the point. Out in big-sky country, a man either sies what's right on his mind, or he closes his mouth and sits down. Now, cut all this jibba-jabba and tell it to me again, in something that I can understand."

There was a long, disbelieving silence from the other end.

Then the radio sighed heavily, praying this conversation wasn't being routed through NORAD first. If the transmitter had had eyes, it would have been rolling them. It took a deep breath, blew it out slowly, and began.

"…Pa," Simms intoned flatly in an exaggerated Texan drawl, ""Thar's four feet of wartar in the basement, the chickens is drownded, and the pilot light's out."

"Now, now, son, let's not get too carried away," replied an authentic Texan drawl. "…So, let me see if I get this straight," the junior Bush said, mentally translating and voicing his thoughts aloud, "Four of America's finest have fallen in the proud defense of our nation's freedom, the bastard decided to do it the hard way, and......-"

CRASH!

The pretzel bowl slid unnoticed from Bush's suddenly-rigid fingers. It fell horizontally onto the carpet and exploded upon impact, fanning porcelain shards and toasted bread debris across the floor. The President ignored it, clutching the telephone club with both hands, knuckles white.

"No…!" he stammered weakly, disbelieving, "No… Not… not… _Kim!_"

April 26, 2007  
United States  
Washington D.C.  
White House  
West Wing  
3:19 AM (EST)

To be continued…


	13. Golden Hour

**13. Golden Hour**  
_…In trouble; in it deep…_

April 26, 2007  
Afghanistan  
Kabul  
Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital

11:36 AM

"……Yes, general… Yes, general…. Special Forces? …Yes, I understand… They're in transit? OK, then-… Helos……Yes, we can be ready in about fifteen minutes… …Yes, general…. …We'll do our best, sir."

The doctor gently placed the club phone on its wall mount. Clicking it into the cradle stirred up a puff of light brown dust, dust seemed to filter into everything. Even though it was practically brand new by Afghani standards, the thirty-five-year-old hospital was showing its age. Full of anachronisms. Modern medical equipment, best the U.S. Army could buy, commonly resided against walls that were only half-tiled. The fluorescent lighting above him in the narrow side hallway flickered as things moved on the floor above. In a main corridor, a code red thundered by, an IED victim on the gurney.

Shaking his head, he strode to a nearby scrub sink and began washing his hands. He wore a teal green surgical apron, filthy with bodily fluid from previous procedures, over his pixilated army combat uniform. His square, flesh-out brown leather combat boots were impregnated with dust; splotched and stained with dark red spatters. Slipping out of his sullied apron, he hung it on a peg with others over a sign reading in English and Arabic, "For disinfectant." That done, he cleansed his hands again.

Cleaning the previous operation's final lingering traces of dried blood from under his fingernails with a small brush, he glanced up wearily at a small, spotted mirror.

A short man, maybe 125 pounds, looked back at him through small, round spectacles. He was thin; he preferred wiry. Close, untidy black hair contrasted a roundish, very pale face. What made him stand out, though, what made people take a second glance at him, were his eyes – pale gray irises. A cold, penetrating, calculating color. His friends said he took on an almost reptilian appearance under high stress.

_Stephen Maturin_ read his nametag, backwards in the reflection. He worked as head surgeon as part of a joint Army/NATO medical team in Afghanistan, running one of the largest hospitals in Kabul. Primarily treating soldiers, they saw their fair share of children and civilians injured by IEDs, crossfire, and land mines. Now in his lower sixties, in youth he had served with distinction as a surgeon in the British Royal Navy.

_In youth._ He shivered a little at the words, at the memories they hauled up. In his twenties, he had been a British medical intern in Vietnam, warily serving as a medical advisor during the U.S. buildup. When war finally exploded, he decided his safest chances lay where the heavy artillery was, and he volunteered with a MASH unit. He'd never forget it. He still had flashbacks.

Stephen glared at the mirror as he curled his hands under the tepid stream of water. _The flashbacks._ How he hated them, although he counted himself lucky, in a way. They weren't physically painful and had never interfered with his performance as a doctor. The operation flashbacks even helped him, in a cosmic way, because when he came to from his nightmare, he often found himself dealing with the same kind of case; the flashback had refreshed him on what to do.

But it infuriated him that he didn't know how to control them. He was helpless to their onslaughts, and that fact terrified him. They needed very simple triggers – a jungle smell, a Medevac helo roaring over, a young boy screaming as he died, a certain type of wound. And without warning, he would transition seamlessly into a flashback. It was as if stock footage, jerky, rough, and grainy, had been plastered over his eyes, and he was powerless to rip it away. Throughout the flashback, his body apparently functioned without him, automatically pushing a gurney or tying a bandage. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the flashback would vanish in a blink or flash, and he'd find himself standing in front of the operating table, about to begin, knowing what he was about to do but not knowing exactly how he'd gotten there.

Snapping out of his reverie, he shut off the tap and toweled his hands with a sterilized cloth. Glancing at his watch, he snatched a clean apron off an adjacent rack and wriggled into it; the total disinfect would come just before surgery. He heard footsteps behind him.

"Who was on the line, Maturin?" asked Claire, a senior nurse, standing a few feet away, arms crossed over her surgical robe.

"Central command. We've got a spec. ops. team coming in hot. Ten, twelve minutes out. Shot up pretty bad, from what I was told."

Maturin pulled the club phone out again and rang it for the operating room. "Maturin here. We got incoming. What's available?" He waited a minute as he got the answer, then said, "Okay. Finish up that lap in OR two and clear it now. Keep three and five open. They should be hitting the doors in ten minutes or less."

He slammed the phone unit back on its wall mount and turned to Claire.

"Get the OR teams ready. I'll alert the ED."

"Yes, sir," she said. Turning, she dashed down the hall, yelling for other nurses as she went.

Maturin pushed an intercom on the wall. "Would trauma teams one and two please report to emergency," he said, listening to his own voice drift from the scratchy overhead speakers, "And please send baby arms to the H."

"Baby arms" was the term for patient receiving equipment, easing the transition from transport to theater as if gently catching a baby.

Maturin turned swiftly and ran towards the stairs. In five seconds he made it down, arriving in the Emergency Department in five more. He found the MOD (medical officer of the day) kicked back in a swivel chair, pouring over a list of the week's radio codes as he waited by the radio desk. The MOD's eyebrows perked as he saw the doctor's taut mouth.

"We got incoming," the gray-eyed doctor snapped.

"How many?" asked the MOD, tossing the list onto the counter.

"Sounds like five to six."

The MOD coolly lowered his boots off the desk and, now businesslike, straightened up in the chair. "What do we have?"

"Don't know yet. Central command didn't have specifics. But he was pretty insistent we give these guys extra special care, whoever they are. Any word on the horn yet?"

As if in answer, the radio crackled to life. "Mama Echo 21 calling Charlie Base hospital. Mama Echo 21 calling Charlie Base, over. ETA is eight minutes."

"Echo 21? That's them," Stephen said grimly.

With practiced fluidity, the MOD crabbed his chair sideways, coasted precisely to a stop, and grabbed the mike handset. "This is Charlie Base. What you got, Mike? Over."

"Hey, Will. We have six, repeat six severe traumas. All surgical cases, over. Each crew is gathering patient histories; they should all be in your inboxes by the time we land."

"Thanks; we'll check email." The MOD lifted a pen from his breast pocket and slid a notepad forward. "Give me the lowdown, Mike. Over."

"Oh-kay, first case. American, 22 year old white male, six AK rounds to the chest. Blood pressure 60 over 38, heart rate 176, losing a lot of blood. We have him intubated and on the ambu bag. He's got a pneumo. Two large bore IV's, pouring in saline. Don't know if he'll make it, over."

About this time the trauma teams assembled, four trauma surgeons under Maturin's command along with five residents, eight nurses, and seven senior interns. They filed into the ED and gathered around as the MOD jotted notes.

"Harris," Maturin barked to the first surgeon, a black American, "Take that first Yank. If he's gone by the time they arrive, take whatever you can find."

"Yes. Sir."

The radio sputtered again. "…Second case. Al-Qaeda. Apparently, the brass want these guys alive so they can talk. 28 years old, BP 162 over 90. Heart rate 134, respiratory rate 28. Conscious at this time. Multiple trauma wounds secondary to mortar rounds. One has penetrated his right lower chest. No evidence of pneumo at present. He's breathing on his own. Good lungs sounds in all fields. Two other fragments hit him in the epigastrium and left lower quadrant. Significant blood loss. Two wide bores, sixteen gauge in both arms. Saline going in. Morphine 10 mg given, over."

Stephen glanced at a lanky, ash-blond Canadian surgeon. "Melbourne, take that one."

"Gotcha."

The MOD readjusted the mike to clamp it between his shoulder and cheek. "Okay Mike, what's next, over."

"Third case. Al-Qaeda. 36 years old, multiple trauma wounds to abdomen. Four M-16 rounds. He's a mess, Doc. BP 90 over 42. Heart rate 165 and thready. Belly's wide open. We swabbed it with betadine and wrapped it up as best we can, but his guts are all torn up. He's been sedated with Morphine 20 mg. and Midazolam. He's intubated and on the ambu, too. We had to give him some succinylcholine to keep him from fighting us. ETA now six minutes, over."

"Jackson," said Maturin to another American, "That one's yours."

"Right."

The medevac chopper pilot kept going, "Older woman, age unkown, appears to be in her late thirties. She's a goddamn horror story, Will. Face all torn apart. The ops told me she took shrapnel to the eye. We've got her backboarded to keep fragments from moving; I'm worried about her brain. BP 70 over 40. Heart rate 152. Respirations 30. Unconscious."

Maturin turned around to face his South Korean ophthalmologist, Dr. Brenniger. Without waiting for the order, the Asian removed his glasses, gave them a quick clean on his coat, and slid them back onto the bridge of his thin nose. "Certainly."

"Thank you." Stephen leaned next to the radio. "What's next, Mike?"

"32 year old black male. Al-Qaeda. Abdominal trauma for mortar round. Single mortar round wound to lower right quadrant. BP 158 over 86, heart rate 124, respirations 22. Stable, mental status intact. Tried to choke a few of the medics. We had to strap him down pretty good. He's been given 10 mg Morphine, and seems to be holding, but he's an exploratory lap for you, over."

Maturin looked sideways the MOD. "Assess that one and keep him stable. When we can, we'll get him in…."

The ED doc nodded and turned back to the radio. "Okay. Mike, what's the last one? Over."

"19-year-old white female, I repeat, white female......"

_Bloody hell…_ thought Maturin irritably as murmuring erupted from the trauma teams as well. _What in hell was some civvie doing out there? Got caught in crossfire, maybe? _

"............serious stab wound to upper umbilical, BP 60 over 40, heart rate 162, respiration 32. Discovered unconscious, now on Midazolam. Moderate trauma wound to left thigh and minor trauma on both arms. Whoever gut-stuck this poor kid hit the right place. She's bleeding all over the place_. _One IV in right arm, only a twenty gauge. Trying to pump in the saline as fast it will take. ETA four minutes, over."

Maturin picked up the mike as the MOD scribbled. "Mike, this is Maturin. Did you say a female? Over."

"That's right, doc. Red blooded American female as any."

"_American?_"_ Goddamnit... _"Brass never mentioned her!"

"Don't ask _me_ how she got here. The face seems real familiar, but these birds don't have rear-view mirrors and nobody gave out names. The Specs in back are going apeshit over her, though. See you in three, doc. Over and out."

"Charlie Base out, Mike," He turned to the trauma teams. "My team will take that last one." He paused for effect, then clapped loudly and pointed toward across the trauma wing. "Okay boys and girls, let's rock and roll!"

Breezing through the ED complex, commonly and mistakenly known by the Yanks as simply "the ER," he slowed by the glass-walled resuscitation bays. In the operation boxes, orderlies hastily prepped for the new load, swinging bank lights forward, stripping clear plastic wrap from trays of disposable instruments, pulling squashy bags of saline and artificial blood out of drawers and stringing them on IV stands. For the brief moment, the blood pools, bandage wrappers, scissors, clothing shreds, and wrinkled strips of muscle and charred skin were gone, linoleum floors winking brightly in their place. Maturin knew they would revert to stinking pigsties in only a few minutes. Reaching the end of the ward, he strode through the double-wide automatic glass doors, stretching on disposable latex gloves as he went.

Dust swirled across the open helicopter landing area. Before him spread a large field, if small patches of yellowed, dust-choked grass could be called a field. Spray-painted at carefully measured intervals across the expanse were big, circled Hs. Maturin found himself standing with his fellow surgeons, wordlessly squinting toward the high, barren mountains to the south with uneasy anticipation. Orange gurneys shifted on the gravel. IV bags tatted against their metal supports in the light wind. Behind him, the airy, brand new trauma center gleamed in the fresh sunlight. The entire hospital was a hodge-podge of old and new wings, tacked onto one another like patches in an old skirt.

Maturin craned his head backward. He couldn't see them, which was strangely reassuring, but he knew snipers lay ready in the balconies, protecting the valuable medics against a Taliban attack.

"Hey, is that blades?" called a young anesthetist, late 20's, a fit black man with a bald head (the CRNA always shot back that it was "shaved"). He consistently reminded Stephen of that Turk fellow from the American show _Scrubs_.

The pale MD tilted his head to one side. It *was* helicopter rotors. Floating from the direction of the mountains, they steadily grew louder and louder. From the noise, he estimated there were at least four.

"You bet damn right they are," said Claire in a steely voice, tightening her grip on a gurney.

As the unseen choppers thumped the air, Maturin's experienced eyes picked up a dust plume rising over the ridge, not four miles distant. It meant only one thing. The birds were heavy loaded, flying just above the ground, and moving – fast.

The foreshadowing cloud of dust advanced across the far side of the mountain, rising like an approaching locomotive's smoke. Gradually, heavy bass thuds blotted out all other noise, jackhammering on their ears.

The rough _phupah_ crescendoed to a thunder, pounding vibrations through Maturin's feet and ribcage.

As it climaxed, a convoy of four helicopters exploded over the ridge.

And Stephen Maturin was instantly transported back to Vietnam.

Mountains in the distance and the ground before him were still bare, unusual for the thick tropical forests of 'Nam, but he knew why. He was standing on Hill 937, more famously known as Hamburger Hill. Vegetation had been picked clean by firefights, massive artillery strikes, and thousands of gallons of napalm.

A contingent of olive-drab UH-1H Hueys barked toward them, a few yards over the ground, full throttle, hard-charging, pouring on the coal.

Olive drab. How Maturin loathed the color olive drab. As the machines came into focus, he could see big red crosses plastered over their noses and sliding doors.

_Crosses. Perfect, _Stephen thought bitterly. _The best goddamn targets in the sky… The VC get paid double when they take down a dustoff…_

Flying a perfect Finger Four, they banked as one in a wide circle over their heads, bleeding speed. As they turned, Stephen could see a maroon streak, like a ragged racing stripe, tracing up the side of one Huey. It started thick and dark directly beneath the closed bay door. It narrowed as it followed the curve of the tail, sucked up and back by the tail rotor. Once on the boom, it became a delicate red line, flowing backwards until the rotor blast flung it from the metal skin.

Stephen's lips curled backward as he noted its length. He knew what this was; he'd seen it many times before. It wasn't paint.

It was blood.

Some poor guy, or more, in there was mortally wounded, bleeding dry. Nothing they could do, of course, but that didn't stop him from spraying five liters of the stuff across the cabin and floor.

The choppers touched down in a staggered line, only yards to spare between the blurred main rotors. Dust sprayed. Yelling. Screams. The trauma teams charged forward. The helicopter's sliding doors rolled open as they came. Stephen ran toward the nearest helicopter, the one dripping blood. Everything moved in slow motion. Nicole and Christy, nurses from his platoon, followed him. Ducking under the blades. Felt his drab BDUs ripple in the strong wash. The Lycoming 1400-hp turbine roared in his ears. The cargo door rumbled open as he stretched his hand forward.

Out spilled a wash of crimson blood. The small waterfall cascaded over the lip and splattered over the ground, pelting the lower legs of his pants. The metallic, coppery reek of it hit him square in the face. Inside the helo was a nightmare. Dark, cramped, hot, smelly, wires and blood everywhere. A medic performed CPR to a body on a stretcher, his yells unheard over the engine noise. The soldier in question jerked sickeningly, lifelessly, as the compressions pounded on his chest. The medic wore elbow-length rubber gloves. The rubber up to his elbows shone crimson.

Live combatants turned to look at Maturin as he opened the door. Wide-eyed. Shouting in slow motion, unheard in the doctor's intense concentration. Clambering out of the chopper, struggling to lug their buddies out with them. Maturin and a nurse grabbed a patient and yanked him headfirst onto a waiting stretcher. The saline bag trailed. He grabbed it and snapped it onto the IV pole.

In one of those seconds that seem to go on forever, Maturin glanced down at the casualty he was loading. A translucent green oxygen mask strapped over his face. Large, round eyes closed. Very pale.

But… something was wrong. Maturin leaned closer, trying to figure out what.

_Hold up… It's not regulation to have shoulder-length red hair..._ he thought dimly. He looked farther down the body, which was inexplicably dressed in a black top. _Oooor a... chest..._

He blinked. No usual lurch or bright flash of light. The scene didn't change. He continued to gaze at a very pretty face, one with a cute pointed nose and full lips.

The realization hit him so hard he recoiled. This was no Vietnam flashback. There never had been a Vietnam flashback. This was the real deal. And he must be staring down at the one they called Kim Possible.

Like a sports car in the middle of a gear change, he clutched for a moment. Then everything fell in, locked down, and floored it. He was back in control.

He heard Harris yell something over the roar of the Black Hawk's engine. "_What?!_"

"I said, my guy's gone, Stephen!"

"Okay, relieve the MOD!"

Confusion reined as less severe casualties stumbled out of the medevac bays areas and began wandering around in shock. Melbourne's team reached their patient and hurriedly loaded him on the stretcher. The saline bags flashed onto the poles and Melbourne quickly assessed him. An intern strapped a BP cuff around the terrorist's arm and a steady sinus tachycardia rhythm appeared on the monitor. The soldier himself was barely conscious, gritting his teeth from the pain, but made no sound.

"OR two, now!" yelled Melbourne, "He's stable enough. Get four units of blood stat, type O negative. Transfuse now. Type and cross four to six more units. Start Ringers at 250 cc an hour. Get a central line kit in the operating room and have the anesthetist put in a jugular line. I don't want it in the subclavian. Let's go!"

The team immediately moved off, headed for the ED doors.

In the meantime, Jackson moved his patient onto his stretcher as Harris ran over to the fourth chopper with his team. The other gut wounded terrorist was in a great deal of pain but was able to move with some help. Harris's team transferred him to a stretcher, and he grimaced from the bumps as the team dashed his stretcher over the rough ground for the hospital.

Jackson's patient was intubated and sedated. The ambu bag ventilator – a squeezable plastic pouch used to maintain respiration – was handed off by the medic to one of the interns who continued the regular respiration. The IV bags were hung on the poles and Jackson's team ran their patient to OR.

"How bad, Jackson?" shouted Maturin.

"God awful, Stephen!" he yelled back, "He'll be lucky if he doesn't end up with short gut syndrome!"

Maturin just nodded as he prepared to move his casualty.

"Go, Go, GO!" he yelled, helping Claire drag the stretcher out from under the air wash and ran with it toward the ED. As he jogged, he did a quick analysis of her condition. Multiple lacerations over the face and arms. Penetration trauma to the left thigh. No limbs missing. A knife handle, wrapped in disinfectant-soaked cloths, stuck up from the mass of reddening bandages around her middle like a fork in ice cream. He winced. _Ouch… likely penetration of the stomach, so it'll be a dirty wound. Probable small intestine lacerations that will need oversewing. Pancreas might have been hit. God, I hope it didn't hit the aorta or celiac artery. No way to know until I get in there...._

They burst through the sliding glass doors.

"Claire, what's her vitals?"

"BP is 60 over 40… Pulse is 146..."

"Blood loss?"

"About a liter and a quarter, sir. The medic in charge of her told me the spec ops packed her guts full of QuikClot, so at least she didn't exsanguinate."

"Damn, that'll be a bitch to clean up… How long has she been on oxygen?"

"Twenty minutes."

"That rules out Oxycyte for now… Get her into OR 5 and hook her up to a liter of Ringer's. Then type O-negative for immediate transfusion, stat. Make sure John got her patient history, too."

As Claire shouted commands, he broke away from the cart for a moment to watch the ordered chaos swirl around him. Yelling, calls for bandages, a scalpel, ten milligrams of morphine. A calm panic.

"Hey!" he called loudly over the wheeze of breathing machines and whine of EKGs, "Get these people stabilized; I want them on this evening's transport to Landstuhl!"

Claire tapped him on the shoulder. "Sir…"

"What?"

"Two casualties, the young lady and a woman, can't wait for Lands. We have to open them up now."

"The lady has acute intestinal trauma, and the woman…?"

"A blowout fracture of the right orbit secondary to trauma to the eye. Dr. Brenniger is working on her now."

"Let's get to work on the redhead, then." He felt himself slipping into an oiled, professional serenity. Claire saw his face tightening. The reptile.

They ran the stretcher down the hall to the OR suites. Assistants slit away her clothes, simultaneously covering her bared body with teal surgical drape. Bright xenon light danced off her pale skin. An EKG screeched.

The anesthesiologist pushed a dose of succinylcholine into the IV on her right arm and monitored her vitals as she quickly went limp. Finding a large vein in her upper left arm, he inserted another IV line and began pumping frigid saline solution into her body; the forced hypothermia would drastically slow tissue damage.

While the anesthesiologist double-checked his IV lines, a respiratory technician finished prepping the ventilator and replaced the ambu bag with ventilator hose, freeing up an intern to help uncover the surgical instruments.

"How 'bout that… Kim Possible, eh, John?" murmured the respiratory tech as he urged the breathing tube a little farther down the teen's throat.

"Hmm…" John muttered distractedly as he sewed the lines in. "Wonder how she got out here. And Pale Face thought she was some puking civvie… 'Scuse me."

The anesthesiologist shuffled over to Kim's neck, displacing the respiratory tech, and swabbed her throat with alcohol. Bending down, he pulled out a small plastic box from an under-table locker and ripped the paper off the top, exposing IV kit material. After donning sterile gloves, he took a small amount of lidocaine and numbed the small "V" beside her right sternocleidomastoid muscle, which started below her ear and ran down the side of her neck. Lifting an empty syringe with a twenty-gauge needle, he eased it into her neck. Two centimeters down, a sudden squirt of dark-red blood indicated he had hit the internal jugular vein. With practiced skill, he threaded a small wire through the needle into the vein and down to the girl's heart, looking over to the EKG monitor as he did so. He was rewarded with a couple of irregular blips as the metal wire caused minor short-circuits in her heart, meaning the wire was in the correct vein. John withdrew the needle and jammed a small plastic tube in its place, which went over the guide wire and into the vein to create a tunnel for the catheter.

Retrieving a large three-lumen catheter tube from the plastic kit box, he pushed it down until the stopper hub pressed against her skin, five inches of catheter tube now stuck inside her jugular vein and superior vena cava, the tip just above the heart's right atrium. He quickly used another syringe to test back-flow in each of the three lumen compartments, then flushed them with saline before stitching down the central line to prevent it from pulling out. As he finished, the Type O-negative blood arrived and he immediately hung up the first bag.

Stephen watched from just outside the door as they prepped the patient. Stripping off the contaminated latex gloves, he stepped on the foot control of the scrub sink and began a final hand-washing. After his digits became sterile, he held up his dripping hands to dry them without touching a surface and to signal he was about to operate. A nurse dried them completely with a small sterile towel and then slid fresh gloves onto his hands, being careful not to touch the finger rubber. Backing into the OR, using his shoulders to open the door as so not to soil his hands, he met Claire, already gowned and sterile.

From a table marked "Sterile," an assistant calmly fitted a puffy surgical cap on his head, tied up a mouth protector, and carefully slipped his operating goggles behind his ears.

"Thank you…" He turned to Claire. "Vitals?"

"Heart rate 144, BP 58 over 30, respirations on the vent 20."

"Oxygen?"

"Flowing. Intubated at 100 percent."

"Fluids?"

"Saline is wide open in the arm. But that one's not very good. Rate's only about 80 or so. The blood's going in the central line."

"Start another saline wide open in the central line."

"Already on it, Stephen," answered the anesthesiologist.

Valves opened; fluids flowed. Kim's condition leveled out somewhat.

Maturin turned to his head nurse. "Claire, draw labs. CBC, CMP, PT, PTT, blood cultures times two. Get a d-dimer and fibrinogen while you're at it."

"Yes, doctor."

"What are her vent settings?"

The respiratory tech answered, "Vital capacity 600 cc. Rate 20. FiO2 1.0, PEEP of 5."

"Need ABGs now."

"Already done, sir," replied the respiratory tech proudly.

"Good work," answered Maturin, "And…?"

"pH 7.28, pO2 325, pCO2 28, bicarb 26."

"Okay, cut her FiO2 to 50%, and repeat ABGs in five minutes."

"She'll probably benefit from an arterial line for that."

Maturin glanced at John. "Do it."

The anesthesiologist grabbed an arterial line kit from the bottom of the anesthesia machine and walked around to the girl's right side. Swiftly he ducked underneath the sterile drape so as not to violate the sterile field and exposed her right inner thigh. One of the other nurses prepared the art-line monitor unit and slid it into place with its brothers on the display rack. Using a similar wire technique, the anesthesiologist put an arterial monitoring line into the girl's right femoral artery and soon had it hooked up to the module. The monitor screen soon showed the pulsating pressure waves of arterial blood flow that indicated how well blood was circulating throughout the body. It also was much more accurate in showing true blood pressure, which unfortunately showed it to be a little lower than with the external cuff, running about 52 over 26.

"Damn it!" muttered Maturin, "Have we got the dopamine ready?"

"Hanging now, doctor," said Claire.

"Start her at 20 mikes. And get some neosynephrine ready too. I feel we're going to need it as well."

"Yes, doctor."

"Blood pressure's up at little. 72 over 40."

"That's better, John. The dopamine's working some."

"How high do you want it before you go in?"

"I don't think I can wait."

Claire returned with the blood lab data and handed the cleanroom papers to John. "Thank you…" He skimmed through the results, making notes on a clipboard beside the anesthesia machine.

Stephen limbered his fingers. "Ready to put her under?"

"Any time you are."

"Good. Begin." As John opened the valves and monitored the sevoflurane flow rate, Maturin turned as a nurse rapped her knuckles on the open OR door.

"Doctor Maturin, sorry to interrupt, but we have the okay from the 651st Medical Company. They'll take the less severe casualties."

"Good," he replied, "Anything else?"

"No, doctor."

He turned to check the vitals monitor again, continuing the conversation over his shoulder. "…Okay, thanks for your help. Let's get those lesser casualties......–"

"…Kim! …KIM!" The strangled cry rang through the department. A blonde young man, similar to the girl in age, was attempting to break free of the medical assistants trying to hustle him around the edges of the ED, using their bodies to block the surgery from view. In a surprising show of flexibility, he broke their grasp and dashed to the transparent partition, staring, horrified, at the girl on the operating table. He reached out a hand, as if to touch her through the glass, ignoring his own cuts and bandages. The orderlies finally caught up with him and flattened him against the wall like cops. Writhing free, he pushed through the doorway.

He rushed forward but was blocked by two of the surgical techs.

"Don't touch her!" Maturin barked without turning around, "She's sterile!"

The young man looked up briefly as he lurched to a stop, face ripped with anguish.

"Kim! Don't leave! Hang on for me, OK! Hang on…! I still need to get you that soda…!"

The surgical techs managed to keep him restrained.

Maturin turned around and eyed him calmly. Ron looked up, staring at him with fear in his eyes. His pupils flickered between the doctor's face and his girlfriend on the table.

"Son, listen to me. She has a severe abdominal wound and is bleeding heavily. I have to operate. I can't have any interruptions. But we'll do everything we can, son. Stay calm for me. Can you do that?"

Ron nodded, tears streaming down his blood-streaked face.

"Nicole," said the surgeon softly, "Make sure Mr. Stoppable – I think that's his name– gets the minor surgery clinic to look at his arm… And see if you can get the folks there to calm him down as well."

"Yessir." The attractive black-haired nurse nodded to the burly medical assistants. Ron went limp and went quietly with them back to the ED.

Maturin watched a moment as he vanished into the chaos of the emergency floor, then returned to the operating field.

"Vitals."

"Heart rate still 146, BP 65 over 40. Respirations 20."

"Damn. Can we get another large bore in her?"

"I'm on it," said the anesthetist. He went around to the left side and managed to sneak in under the sterile drape once more. Within five minutes he had a sixteen gauge in the left femoral vein. He hooked it up to another bag of normal saline.

"Open it wide."

"Yes. Sir."

Looking at the girl's belly, the knife stuck into the upper umbilical section of the abdomen. Blood slowly trickled out from the wound.

"Blood pressure?" he asked again.

"70 over 40."

"Okay, let's go. Keep the crash cart nearby. ...Scalpel."

He immediately felt the handle slap into his palm. He didn't even have to look; OR nurses were trained to place whatever he asked for in his hands instantly and exactly positioned for the purpose.

He made a quick incision down to the navel. Once he was through the skin, he used a sponge to mop up and control the bleeding. He handed the scalpel back.

"Bovie."

This was a tool that cut like a scalpel, but used electric current as a cautery. It could cut and stop bleeding at the same time. Thankfully, there was virtually no abdominal fat to go through. Only hard, toned muscle.

He was soon down to the midline connective tissue. Using the bovie he sliced a line right through the linea alba, a tough midline tendon through the center of the abdominal muscles, and reached the peritoneum. This thin layer of tissue covering the abdominal organs easily fell apart to the sides.

"Retractors."

He was handed the device by the nurse. Slipping its tongs into the surgical wound, he ratcheted the mechanism to spread the skin and muscle sections apart to reveal the abdominal organs. Now he was able to see the first hand effects of the injury, the first being the massive amount of blood in the abdominal cavity and an ungodly mess of QuikClot granules.

"Damn. Suction!"

A suction catheter was connected by the nurse and handed to him. He then stuck the tube down into the abdomen and started to suck out the blood and fluids. The tube cracked hollowly as large, syrupy globs of QuikClot were carried away. It took him thirty seconds to get enough blood and gore out to see what was going on.

"How much did I get out?"

"2300 cc."

"Okay. Give her another two units of blood, stat. Hose."

He was down to the intestines and he could see at least two lacerations. The internal contents were slowly leaking out. These he separated out and put a towel underneath each leak to limit the spread of contaminants. He moved the transverse colon down and was able to see the knife blade going directly through the twists of the small intestine. But there was still significant bleeding coming from behind it. He used the suction to keep the area clean and had collected another 400 cc in less than a minute. Looking closer, he made out the problem. The mesenteric artery had been partially cut and was heavily bleeding.

"Pressure's falling, 68 over 35. Heart rate 156," said the anesthesiologist.

Maturin didn't acknowledge him and just kept working.

"Cross clamp."

He was handed the tool and he quickly placed it across the celiac artery. This cut off blood flow to the liver, spleen and most of the intestines, but as long as he restored blood flow within fifteen minutes or so, chances of damage would be low. It was the only way he could quickly stop the bleeding and repair the artery. He quickly suctioned the cavity out again. Now it stayed uncovered as the bleeding was stopped.

"Ohhhh-kay, let's make this kid feel a lot better." He glanced behind him at one of the unsterile nurses. "Jones, right?"

"Yessir."

"Bring a pan over. Careful. Kathy, a towel, please."

The surgeons shuffled apart to open their ring to Jones, and Kathy, a sterile nurse, laid a disinfectant-soaked cloth in Stephen's open palm. Hand protected, he reached forward, carefully wrapped his fingers around the swaddled knife handle, and slowly, gently pulled upward. Covered in blood and muck, the blade glided smoothly out. Maturin stared at the weapon in his hand for a second; its reflection hovered ghostlike in the glinting goggles around him.

Jones gazed at it with revulsion and awe as Stephen gingerly lowered it onto the waiting platter. "One… one of the soldiers told me this was bin Laden's..."

Maturin eyed it with disdain. "Then take it and toss it in the incinerator… Go wash up. Thank you."

Jones moved away and the circle closed again. Maturin looked down, refocusing his thoughts. "3-0 gut."

He was handed the suture. The laceration went halfway through the artery, but he didn't think it would need a patch. Very carefully he began to stitch the wound together. In ten minutes he had the job done and cautiously removed the cross clamp. The artery immediately puffed up with blood flow and began to leak around the stitches. But it was minimal. He dabbed at it with a sponge and stopped the bleeding completely in about five minutes.

"Pressure's still not good, Stephen," John said uneasily.

"Start the neosynephrine."

"What at?"

"Two mikes. Dial up to get a systolic of 90 minimum… Blood pressure?"

"Falling, 60 over 30."

"Damn!" he muttered again.

Abruptly, the life support systems went haywire. A doctor rolled a breathing machine forward. Another stood by with an amp of lidocaine.

"We're losing her! We're – !" Maturin glanced up at the heart monitor, worry etched across his brow. "V-fib!"

One of the nurses outside the sterile field charged over to the side of the OR, grabbed a defibrillator, and brought it to the bedside.

Maturin stepped away for the operating field and let the surgical techs clear the blanket away from the girl's chest. The pads were quickly affixed at the lower left side just under the breast and at the top of the sternum.

The wires were attached.

"Charge to 60 joules."

Three seconds. The machine spooled up to a tinny electrical whine.

"Okay- CLEAR!"

Everyone stepped back from the OR table, hands raised.

_Baaaaachooonka!_

Kim's body jumped off the table about an inch as the charge convulsed her muscles.

"Still V-Fib! Charge to 120 joules. One mg epinephrine, now!"

One of the nurses reached into the crash cart and pulled the box out. Rapidly she whipped out a syringe and removed the needle. She deftly cannulated it into one of the central line ports and pushed the liquid adrenaline all the way in.

"Charge ready."

"CLEAR!"

Another shock was given. Again the girl's body writhed.

Maturin looked at the monitor. She had been in rough fibrillation rhythm. Momentarily she went back into sinus tach, but it soon degenerated back into another unstable rhythm.

"One more epi!"

It was given.

"300 joules this time."

The machine charged up.

"CLEAR!"

Once more the girl's body convulsed. They waited anxiously as the monitor vitals came back online.

"Maturin, she's hanging by a thread!"

"Well, don't let her go asystole!" he shouted back, turning to the crash cart, "I don't know if it's possible for her system to take it!"

Behind him, doctors gasped.

As he whipped around, the histrionic EKG fell into one long, loud, flat unbroken scream.

April 26, 2007  
Afghanistan  
Kabul  
Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital  
11:47 AM

To be continued...


	14. Delineations

**14. Delineations**  
_"...These are the chronicles of life and death, and everything in between..."_

* * *

_I am dead._

The single thought flared in Kim's consciousness like a solitary struck match in a dark room.

_I am dead._

She felt nothing. No up or down. No sense of depth. No perception of gravity or orientation – no vertical, horizontal, sideways, or upside down. No solid surface beneath her body. Floating, yet without any sense of dangling, height, or suspension. No sensation of her body. It didn't matter if she had clothes on or not – there was no feeling of them, or her very skin, for that matter. She was a pair of eyeballs and a brain, if that. Blackness pressed in from all sides. There was no difference between eyes shut or closed. At any rate, she did not feel any eyelids resting over her corneas. No white dazzle spots or pixel fizzing. No sense of time. The pure darkness was utter. Complete. Tangible. At once, it slapped against her eyes like a coffin lid and stretched for miles like a lightless cavern.

_I am dead._

Very, very gradually, however, she began to feel something warm and soft press into her back. At imperceptible increments, the contact deepened. Kim still had no sense of location or position, but she knew, at least, something was _behind_ her. Barely. It wasn't a surface; barely even a substance; almost a gas. Frozen smoke. Her astrophysicist father would have dubbed it aerogel.

As time stood still in the blackness, the substance became more distinct, warmer, and enveloping. From a caress of solid smoke, the material slowly thickened to the consistency of a cloud.

Without warning, like a cell phone ringing in church, something prodded over what she presumed to be her body. A light, scampering dither of little pinprods. Then the points, whatever they were, splayed over what Kim estimated as her cheeks. It tickled.

Involuntarily, she giggled and slowly opened her eyes.

Less than a quarter-inch from her eyeballs, filling her entire vision, was a pair of black, beady eyes.

"Yiep!"

Kim slammed bolt upright, the motion flinging Rufus off her face and onto the bedsheets covering her lap. An EKG at her bedside screeched in response to her spiking vitals. Intravenous lines snaked out of her arms, linking to clear bags of saline suspended on the bedposts. Monitoring cables connected her to blinking machines. An oxygen cannula trailed under her nose. The bedspread falling off her upper torso revealed a midriff wrapped in gauze. As she passed vertical, something seemed to catch and bind in her abdomen. A millisecond later, pain exploded through her body, radiating from her midsection.

With a gag, a gasp, and a low, pained groan, she sunk back to her pillows and blacked out.

When she opened her eyes again a few seconds later, she found Ron, Simms, Dr. Director, Ben, Jonathan, Wilson, Michaels, and Mr. Barkin clustered around the bedrails, staring anxiously down at her, faces strained. After it became clear she was going to remain conscious, they all sighed tremendously, deflating, and grinned weakly at her. Ron, clutching the rail at her side with white knuckles, let his chin fall to his chest in a nod of intense relief.

"Kim... Welcome back to the world of the living...." said Simms weakly, beaming as he put an arm on her shoulder.

"Y-yeah...." Kim breathed, disconcerted, panting lightly, eyes wide. She inclined her head slightly to clear the massive white pillow billowing around her ears. "Where... where... _am_ I?"

Bright, clean blocks of morning sunlight flooded into the surgical intensive care unit through tall windows behind her. The long patient recovery center was reminiscent of nineteenth century architecture; high and airy, painted a soothing soft white. Brightwork and medical equipment sparkled. Particles in the air momentarily glowed as they passed through the sunbeams. Mullions broke the light into dazzling checkers. One set spilled across her bedspread from a high window to her immediate left. The featureless light-blue sheet absorbed the light, turning the mass of crisp white blankets beneath it into a warm, safe cocoon. The layers tucked firmly into the aluminum bedframe with military exactness; all lines perfectly straight, all corners perfectly square.

Between gaps in the surrounding bodies, Kim could see beds identical to hers running along the windowed wall, each containing a soldier with varying degrees of bandaging and life support wiring. Doctors and nurses flitted from bed to bed, pixilated camouflage uniforms peeking from beneath white or teal robes. Distant, cheerful conversation and medical noises drifted to them, but for the most part her area was vacant, undoubtedly to give her visitors discussion room.

Every one of them sported injuries. Michaels, Wilson, Jonathan, and Simms appeared relatively spared, suffering from only band-aids, half-a-dozen stitches, and a serious case of good luck. Ben's right leg, vanishing beneath the bedrail, was encased in a flexible cast. Mr. Barkin stoically bore a large shoulder gauze and arm sling to keep his healing shoulder from moving. He also showed off a cap of bandages.

"...You're at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center," replied Dr. Director matter-of-factly, her voice oddly tinny and plugged, as if she had a bad cold. A skullcap of bandages canted over the right side of her head. Her face looked slightly rearranged, even a bit puffy, and was dotted with stitch lines. The patch over her right eye seemed newer, somehow. Kim did not remember it caving back into her eyesocket quite that much.

"Whiiich is...?"

"An advanced support care center for U.S. troops from Iraq and Afghanistan."

"Oh...." she said, still unnerved by Betty's new accent. She paused. "....Uh... Dr... Dr... Director, if... if... you don't mind me asking..." she blurted, unable to contain her curiosity any longer, "Errrr... What happened to your voice?"

"My, already up and asking questions... That was quick...." the woman replied coolly. "Anyway... Me? Took a grenade fragment to the eye. Destroyed my sinuses and wrecked around there pretty good..." she jerked a finger at the socket. "Not that there was much, at least, to loose..."

Kim's respect for the GJ administrator shot up several notches. Fighting was hard enough even with the depth perception afforded by two eyes. "So... so... All this time I thought you were just a hokey Nick Fury rip-off... There really wasn't-?"

"Nope. My.... –brother– ....and I developed a freak high fever about a week after we were born," Dr. Director explained. She spat out the word "brother" like rotten fruit. "It cost me my eye. It snapped my brother......  
Once I got high enough in GJ, they fitted me with a cybertronic replacement and wired it up to the optic nerve. All sorts of neat little gizmos – infrared sensor, rangefinder, zoom lens, weapons targeting system, blood tracer, so on… The patch was actually a miniature HUD. My million-dollar peeper took the brunt of it; I've obliterated my sinuses, but it prevented the shard from getting to my brain." She paused. "...R&D is going to be really pissed," she said with rueful smile, "That's a whole lot of little circuits I just smashed."

Kim grinned knowingly, thinking back to Wade's splutterings when she first returned the supersuit. Absentmindedly, she glanced around to a window. The leafy branch sagged against the window. It drifted in and out of sight on a small breeze. In the distance, she could see low, forested mountains.

_This definitely ain't Afghanistan…_

"So... Where _is_ this Landstuhl place?"

Simms and Jonathan looked sideways at each other.  
"....Germany," said Jonathan shortly.

Kim blanched. "Umm... guys..." she said apprehensively, voice rising slightly, "Um... uh... H-how long have I been out?"

Simms hesitated, exchanging another significant glance with Jonathan. "Weelllll..." he said slowly, "...Considering it's now –" he checked a black military chronometer strapped to his wrist "– 8:53 AM, May 1st.... I'd have to say about...." he checked the watch again, "....Five days. More accurately, four days and a wakeup."

May 1st, 2007  
Kaiserslautern District, Germany  
Landstuhl Regional Medical Center  
Surgical Intensive Care Unit  
Ward 2-C  
8:53:34 AM

"Say _WHAT_?!" Kim shouted, disbelieving, choking over his words. "...F-five days...! I can't have been out for five days! What's the sitch...? What's happened...? What's the global…?!"

She agitatedly scrunched the covers beneath her chin.

"Is everything OK? Has anybody needed a rescue? I can't just sit here! What if somebody needs my help...!!" She made to clamber out of bed. As she struggled, Simms glanced at Jonathan, brows arched.

_What did I tell you...?_

Ben leaned over to Wilson. "Ha... knew it... she's a pistol, all right..." he muttered, smiling. "You owe me a buck."

Deciding to intervene before the girl hurt herself, Simms put a hand firmly on Kim's sternum and pressed her back into the pillows.

"....Slow down there, kiddo. I think the world will still be around to save after you patch up." Kim still tried to rise, and the general was forced to strengthen his push. "The... _reason_... you were out for those five days is because the docs wanted to give your system time to recover. They figured, accurately, that the moment you woke up you'd try something like, well, this." He chuckled gently.

Her weakened system drained, Kim finally relaxed with a huff.

"...You... snapped straight up... screaming... about six hours ago, though," spoke up Ron in a hesitant, oddly hollow voice, "...The medicos had to conk you out again so you didn't wake up the whole ICU."

Kim shivered quietly. She remembered nothing of that... But as the memories began to drift back, though, she had a feeling she'd be sitting up in beds for a while to come. Kim glanced at Ron's face. He smiled bracingly, trying to cheer her up. His right shoulder was bandaged and slung like Barkin's. IV dots ran up a vein on one arm. Small cuts traced over his face and exposed forearms. Despite this, though, he looked fine and healthy between the various stitch lines.

Still, a feeling nagged her. Kim could not have been friends with him so long and not know intrinsically when something just seemed... off. She concentrated hard.

It was his eyes. They seemed to lack a certain innocent spark, a certain playful luster, she always remembered. They were glassy. Empty. Haunted. Dead. As if a small light had gone out inside. As if he had seen things.... Done things.... he would never be able to forget.

Kim shivered again.

Even without a mirror, she knew her eyes appeared the same.

Her gloom was distracted as Rufus waddled awkwardly across her legs and made a clumsy leap onto a moveable shelf at her bedside. His little claws pattered sharply over the metal tray as he scampered to Ron's waiting hands.

_Pit-pit-pit-tack!_

_Pit-pit-pit-tack!_

Surprised by the anomaly, Kim looked down.

A small titanium wire protruded from Rufus's back right leg, ending in a tri-pronged foot. The original limb was gone at the hip.

It took her moment to process. "Oh... God... Ron..." she breathed at last, eyes filling with tears, "...Rufus... I-I hadn't noticed… I-I'm so sorry..."

"N-no big," said Ron kindly, nuzzling Rufus against his cheek before helping him onto his shoulder, "A piece of shrapnel hit him while he was running away from a bomb he'd lit –"

Kim tilted her head to one side, perplexed.

"Yeah, I know that sounds weird; I'll explain later. Anyway, the little guy saved our lives down there in return.... And don't worry... Wade said he's prototyping a little C-leg for him." He paused. "Well, OK, maybe you want to worry a little. I don't know how we're going to get him through airports!"

Kim smiled, relieved her boyfriend wasn't a wreck over his pet. "Uh... right.... So..." she said, brightening and turning to more pressing questions, "What happened after I went, uh, night-night?"

Silence. Her squadmates shifted uncomfortably.

Ron uncertainly opened his mouth, but Simms headed him off. "Ron..." he said, tone suddenly sharp, "How about you go tell the doctor that Kim's awake?"

"But..." the blonde trailed, confused. Both teens simultaneously looked down at the big red call button three inches from Kim's right hand.

"_Now._"

"Okay, okay..." He traded a questioning look with Kim before striding off down the ward.

Once Ron was out of earshot, the general leaned down to her head level. After several false starts, he got his thoughts together.

"...Well... well... as you might have guessed, we got things under control and mopped up downstairs," he said quietly, "Found a whole bunch of the mofos packed behind the door rubble, clawing to get in at us. Nothing a couple frags couldn't handle, though..." he said bluntly. "After that, Ron figured out you were in trouble and got us going. You owe your life to that boy, you know that? ....Anyway.... We went after you. Wasn't too hard. All we had to do was follow the bodies." He flashed a limp smile. "Man.... what... what..." he said, going off on an awed tangent, "What did you... _do_ to the first guy? His chest... and... and... everything... Even... even Director said she felt a little funny."

"I don't want to talk about it," said the redhead quietly, trying to suppress the image sizzling into her retinas.

"Whew... anyway... we followed your body trail, along with a little help from Wade…"

"What happened to the kid?" she butted in anxiously.

"The who?"

"The teenage fighter I had left in one of the halls," she said, now slightly bashful, "I…I… had just knocked him out… I dunno… He was just a little older than I was, and I didn't… I couldn't… just… just…"

Simms squinted, mentally skimming the catalog of bodies he had seen over his career. "What…? …Oh, oh yeah – him… That guy…" he said indifferently at last. "Him… He groaned and moved a bit as we came up. I didn't know if he was going for a detonator or something, so I emptied my Glock into him."

Kim's bed dropped away beneath her. She stared speechless at Simms, a lump rising in her throat. She felt a twist and crumple to her stomach that had nothing to do with her wounds. "I… I… had disarmed him…"

"You did? Hmmm… Too bad. That's war."

Somehow, Kim could not agree.

"So…" the general continued breezily, "Wade led us right to the corridor. We found the door locked. Ron was freaking _out_ by this time… He kicked it off the hinges before we could stop him. Everybody rushed in after him, and…. and......." He abruptly trailed off, lost of words.

Jonathan shakily picked up the narration. "…And we… found you… there… lying there… clutching t-this knife in your stomach… blood _everywhere…_ Osama against the wall with a hole in his head… It was crystal what had happened… and you… just there… motionless… so white… eyes closed… it really looked like you… it really seemed like you were…"

"…And so when Ron saw you just lying there, looking just like you were… were… dead," Simms continued heavily, "…He went a little… nuts. He let out this strangled yell – sounded Yiddish if you ask me –, turned, and… – I mean, it was pretty clear already that the guy was dead, but… he unloaded a full M4 magazine into Osama's skull before Michaels could tackle him and get the gun away… He kinda broke down after that. Got it together in time to help transport you out, though…." He paused and sighed heavily. "Whew……… whew…..… It's a good thing you got the right man, 'cause after what you and your boyfriend did to that bastard, he didn't have enough face left for dental records."

Kim was silent. As she mulled over the general's words, she glanced through the forest of bodies around her and spotted Ron at the other end of the hall. He had stalled halfway down the ward and was casually flirting with an attractive black-haired nurse. The snarky, disdainful curl to the RN's lip seemed very familiar… but Kim brushed it aside as mere coincidence. She let her mind drift over Simm's account.

_He's… he's not my clumsy sidekick any more…_ she demurred, watching as he chatted with the nurse. _I…I… should have noticed that at the prom… but it got buried… Now after this, I can't escape it… Ron… Ron "Stay Out of the Way" Stoppable… Can… can… get along for himself… I have to finally face up to the fact that, well… maybe…_ Her brain resisted the incoming thought. _…Maybe… there's some things he can do… do… do… better… than… me…_ Admitting it to herself was like pulling teeth. _He fills in my gaps; I fill in his. After all these years as buffoon and supporting act, maybe… after seeing what went down back there… maybe… it's time to upgrade. … Maybe… just maybe… he deserves… partner…_

Instantly, part of her revolted in a shockwave of fear and outrage.

_NO!_ roared her Type-A, take-charge, domineering ego. The dark side of status quo. The dark side of Kimness. _No! You can't! I'm the one calling the shots! I'm the one in charge! I'm supposed to be the hero! He's supposed to be the sidekick! On missions, he's more a threat to the free world than nuclear weapons! He's clumsy! He's a goof-off! His pants fall down at least once every 36 hours! He's… he's… __**Ron!**_

_…And you're working with a mentality that's at least two years out of date, lady!_ her other half fired back, _Wake up and smell the lip gloss! Everything changes. Even you… Even Ron. This whole control thing is something you'll really have to work on… You will have to come to grips with what has happened. This ain't Junior year at MHS anymore. Any partnership, romantic or not, is a two-way street. ….You wanna change the world? Try starting with yourself…_

Kim gave herself a shake. _Think later…_ "So…What was our butcher's bill?"

"Surprisingly light, given the damn division's worth of fire that they poured at us," said Ben lightly. "We only lost three. You were there when Johnson was hit…"

She nodded distantly.

"Well, he was gone about sixty seconds after he hit the floor. It could have been all of us, really… Oliver really went above and beyond."

The girl's face twisted. "Oh… no… He was one of the twins, wasn't he? Matt must be a mess…"

Mr. Barkin's face tightened slightly.

"In… in more ways than one," murmured Ben, "Well… in an effort that would have put John Elway to shame, Oliver made it across the hall under a mass of fire to place a blasting charge that Jonathan –" he nodded to the demolitions expert, "– had constructed. Such an action was vital to our very survival, in that the charge would cut off the enemy from support. Before he could set it off, though, he…. he… he was cut in half by an RPG."

Kim scrunched her eyes closed.

"Yeah… Simms is thinking about recommending him for a Medal of Honor. We couldn't send anyone else in at that point, and that's where Ron's little rat-thing came in." He jerked his head toward the other end of the ward. "But… but… right after we found out what happened to Oliver…, Matt… his brother… saw it all… forgot his training for a moment… stood up… got shredded by AK rounds," the sniper said in a soft, jerky voice. "Wilson and Michaels got on him immediately… he actually held on until the end of the battle… we got him up the cliff and into the chopper…"

Ben's eyes glazed over slightly. "…He was in the same medevac as you. The… the last few minutes to the hospital… were… just… a sweat-soaked dream… Blood a solid inch deep on the floor… A medic over him, pounding on his chest, long beads of sweat running off him, screaming for him to hang on… Simms clutching Matt's hand, just bawling for him to hang on… hang on… almost there… stay with us… just bawling......... But….. in the end...... h-he just couldn't… he couldn't…" he finally trailed off, shaking his head resignedly while cradling his nose with a hand.

Thankfully, Ron's return at that point broke a rather depressing lull. He absentmindedly rubbed a pale hand-shaped outline on his cheek. Apparently, the nurse hadn't been amused by the Ron-san.

"Hey, KP," he called out as he passed the bed, "Rufus is feeling real thirsty again… I think it has something to do with his new leg. Be back in a sec." He jogged to a side hallway where a water fountain was located.

The doctor followed a step behind. He wore the standard army doctor uniform, camouflage pants and shirt beneath a clean white coat. The warm-up jacket wrinkled on his shoulders slightly, betraying a thin frame. Despite this, however, the man moved with a graceful purpose and power, radiating sinewy professionalism and command. His black hair was short and slightly untidy. Its color contrasted with a clean-cut, very pale face. As he neared the bedside, Kim did the smallest of double takes. Instead of usual brown, black, or blue irises, this doctor's eyes were pale gray. A cold, penetrating, calculating color. The eyes of a man brutally efficient in his work. Eyes that had seen a lot of blood.

"…Glad to see you awake, Ms. Possible," he said, in a surprisingly warm voice. His speech contained a firm British accent. He extended a hand, the other clasping a clipboard with medical papers on it. "…Stephen Maturin. I was your doctor in charge of your operation and remained with you to further monitor your condition."

"Thanks, sir. I'm glad to be back… uh, Steven," replied Kim with a smile, shaking his hand.

"Stephen. With a pfff."

"Oop, my bad…!"

"Don't worry about it. A lot of people make that same mistake, Ms. Possible."

"Ok… sorry…. And by the way, you can call me Kim. Ms. Possible makes me sound so mature… like I'm in my mid-20's, or something."

"No problem," Stephen said, making a small note on his patient records.

A pause.

"So, uh, doc…" she said, gesturing to the swaddling around her midriff, "Um…. How was I?"

He lowered his small, round spectacles slightly to look her directly in the eyes. "Excuse my French…" he said pleasantly, as if giving the time of day, "But to be inescapably blunt, I'd have to say you were rather fucked."

Kim blinked, somewhat taken aback by his language. She tried to think back to the moment of impact. Instead of an image, she hit a mental wall; a swirling, kaleidoscopic howl of color and pain. She figured the doctor was probably right.

"Errr…. I had a pretty rough time of it, then?" she asked weakly.

Wordlessly, Stephen produced a five-by-seven glossy from a back pocket. "…One of the perimeter snipers had a camera built into his scope," he explained, handing it facedown to her, "It triggered accidentally during your offload."

She flipped the photograph over and felt her throat contract. She was gazing at a picture of herself on a stretcher. The tick in time had captured the transfer from helicopter bay to gurney. Her face freeze-framed in the opening, visible through the tangle of bodies on either side. The telephoto lens captured in stunning clarity the clammy sweat on her skin and delicate glint of light off an oxygen mask over her mouth. Eyes closed. Skin dead white.

Kim felt the same kind of gut-shock a preemie feels years later when viewing a picture of himself in the incubator. "That's…. me?" she asked quietly, handing him back the photograph, "I was a wreck… I'm so… pale…"

"...A wreck is an understatement," said Maturin grimly. "You were clinically dead for five minutes."

Kim struggled to digest his words. "Clinically… as in…?"

"You went asystole – No pulse. Code Blue."

She stared openmouthed at him.

"Given the trauma endured, you have some amazingly resilient brain cells…" Stephen continued, "Tremendous blood loss, four defibrillations, and three full minutes of chest compressions....... I'm not a religious man, but…. I'd have to say someone must be looking out for you…"

He paused, readjusting his glasses. "…But theological wanderings aside," he said, tone lightening, "I have to put at least some credit to your survival on your abs."

"You're joking," said Kim, breaking into a smile.

"No joke. Your exceptionally well-toned, if I do say so myself, rectus abdominis muscles prevented the knife damage from widening much beyond the impact area. …I take it you practice yoga and pilates in addition to your standard combat exercises?"

"Errr, yeah… Helps me relax after a mission."

"That explains much. In addition to your abdominals, you had a well-defined core, which included a strong, healthy small intestine and likewise mesenteric. While that would not have prevented the injury, your tough fibers at least contained the wound to the immediate impact zone."

"Meaning…?"

"Meaning I'd keep up the tummy crunches, if I were you," he said with a slight smile. "I must also commend you on your excellent stamina. Going through CPR like that after a prolonged V-Fib has about a five percent chance of survival, but you came through with flying colors. The hypothermic treatment we performed helped too, but only someone in the best physical shape, such as yourself, is likely to get through something that severe without any brain damage…" He broke off slightly to turn to her teammates. "Even though your friends here did an excellent job at controlling the damage…" They beamed. He turned back to her, "…What really did you was the aggregate loss of blood through various wounds, such as the bullet wound to your left thigh."

"What…? I didn't –"

At her confusion, he pulled back the bedsheets to expose her body.

Kim's brain had a flash of horrid, choked embarrassment before she realized she wore pale-yellow patient scrubs, not an infamous hospital half-apron. The pantleg around her thigh had been cut away, exposing a bandage.

_So… I didn't bash my knee on the platform ledge… that was a… a…_

As she stared, registering it for the first time, realization brought pain exploding from the wound. Fire spread across her leg and up her back like a horrible cramp. It continued to intensify as she watched. "Doc… Doooc!" she said, voice rising with the heat, "Do-aaaaakkk!! Ow, ow, owwww!"

Maturin quickly strode to an IVAC stand and twiddled a small knob a quarter-turn. An additional surge of morphine seeped down an IV line and into her arm. Within thirty seconds, the pain ebbed to a low, steady simmer.

"What… what… was _that?_?"

"Sorry… That was injury realization. Many times we see patients who don't know how hurt they really are, and don't feel it because they don't see it. Out of sight, out of mind, you understand. It's one reason we try to prevent victims with missing limbs from seeing the extent of their injuries before they are prepared to deal with them."

"Ahh… yeah… Thanks for the advance warning."

"Sorry, again… So, about that leg-wound. Imagine our surprise when we dug down in there and discovered a bullet lodged against your femoral. The tip had actually nicked the artery wall, but through some bizarre bit of physics, it acted as a plug. Your timely bandage prevented it from shifting. Had either it or the slug moved during the subsequent adventure, transport, or operation… well… suffice it to say there's a good chance I would not be talking to you right now."

"Wow…"

"Indeed..." Maturin shifted his clipboard papers and glanced at a chart for a second. "So, to bring you up to speed," he said, suddenly businesslike, "Once out of surgery, you were kept in a medically induced coma for seventy-two hours to reduce oxygen requirements to the brain. This sped your healing process, as an awake body must divert resources toward cognitive thought. I would have kept you there longer, but it was impressed upon my staff and I that you were to be returned to fighting trim ASAP." He pronounced the abbreviation _ay-sap_. "The sedative, called Propafol, was discontinued after the seventy-two hours, and the ventilator was weaned off shortly afterwards. We were initially worried when you didn't awaken after that, but the serial EEG's showed no aberrations except generalized slowing which was inconclusive. A brain scan done later showed no areas of dead tissue, so we were at least pleased that the physical structure of the brain appeared intact. The problem was that you did not wake up for another two days, apparently undergoing a biological recharge process, and all we could do was wait. Fortunately, you did revive, and you seem to be fully aware without any mental impairment."

He paused, considering. "…I hope you will pardon me when I say this, but due to the unique circumstances surrounding your injuries, you were administered a new drug which has not received full FDA approval."

Kim frowned. She had used many, many "just experimental" substances and devices over the course of her world saving career, but she was no so hot on something being injected _into_ her body, especially without her knowledge.

"As per regulations, we called your parents before inducing the drug," said Maturin, noticing her unsure frown. "I conversed with your mother and she consented to the trial. After surgery and four hours of 50% oxygen, we pumped you full of a white-colored blood enhancer known as Oxycyte… If you'd been nicked in the hours after the infusion, you would've bled pink… The substance is currently in Phase II medical trials, but the Pentagon is really pushing on it. The main draw is that Oxycyte carries fifty times the oxygen of our own blood cells and can cut the effects of brain damage in half." He pulled a small clear syringe vial, little bigger than an aspirin bottle, from a pocket. An opaque white substance swirled inside, looking a bit like thick milk. "Each PFC molecule is small enough to fit where normal blood cells can't – such as damaged capillaries in the brain, spinal cord, and wounds. In this jar are fifty milliliters of Oxycyte," he said, "Able to carry the same amount of oxygen as four liters of blood."

Kim's mouth dropped open. Simms nodded in satisfaction.

"Yeah. Now you know why the Army is screaming for this stuff," said Maturin. "Granted, we'll never be able to replace the incredible functionality of true blood, but it's a start. We're seeing it has the power to revolutionize the TBI – that's traumatic brain injury – field, not to mention the area of traumatic injury in general. I believe it played a crucial role in preventing any anoxic brain damage during your resuscitation and afterwards, and there are no noticeable effects present now that I can determine. In fact, your recovery rate has been nothing short of outstanding. The lines in you now were for stabilization during your revival. They will be removed later this afternoon, and you are headed stateside this evening."

An ear-to-ear grin erupted over Kim's face. "Oh… Gawd…. Really?" She sat forward and gave the pale doctor a hug, ignoring the yank of the IV tubes in her skin. "Oh, Thankyouthankyouthankyou…!" Her abdomen tweezed with pain again, she slumped back down. "Ow… Maaaaybe I shouldn't have done that…" She looked down at her stomach, trying to gauge where the main wound was. She couldn't remember if the knife had entered above or below her navel..... As she reviewed basic anatomy, Kim had a sudden, horrified thought.

"Uh…. Doc…." she said apprehensively, a slow blush creeping across her nose, "Uh… is… is everything going to be…. uh…. _okay?_" She gestured vaguely with her right hand, indicating a swath on her body anywhere from her navel to kneecaps.

Silence. Then simultaneously, the blood-tested, battle-hardened combat squad reacted to a man with panicked, stricken looks.

"Uhhh… I'm thirsty!" said Simms loudly, followed by a chorus of equally loud and hurried "Yeahs!" and "Me toos!" As if charging out of an APC, the group evaporated from the bedside and scurried as a pack to a nearby water cooler. They huddled around it, circling their wagons, making pointless talk, and throwing occasional, frightened glances in their direction. Kim, Maturin, and a slightly exasperated Dr. Director watched them leave. The older woman glanced at Kim and rolled her eye, smirking.

_...Men._

"What… You mean your reproductive organs?" said Dr. Maturin bluntly, raising the faintest hint of an eyebrow.

Unfortunately, the Master of Timing chose to return at that precise moment, holding up a Dixie cup for Rufus to drink from. Oblivious to the direction of the conversation, Ron plopped into a chair beside Kim and leaned forward, politely listening to the doctor's voice. By the time he realized, to his horror, which way the shells were headed, it was too late to clear the blast zone. He'd have to tough this one out.

"Errmmmmm…. " muttered Kim, her nose and cheeks on fire. She glanced sheepishly at Ron. He cracked a thin, bashful smile back, his ears bright red.

"Your ovaries and suchnot should be fine," continued Maturin, maintaining complete professionalism, "You got hit in the upper umbilical – that's above the navel; not the hypogastrium – which is below the navel. As such, your reproductive functions should be unaffected –…"

The flush spread down Kim's neck. Ron looked as if he'd chugged five packets of Diablo sauce. Dr. Director was grinning. Yanks always seemed so immature about the whole subject.

"…–Besides a temporary drop in libido due to stress and the cοcktail of drugs we've been pumping into you.... However, I would strongly recommend abstaining for sexual activity –" At this, both teens turned a stunning shade of pink, "– For about two to three weeks, until things have healed up a bit." As he finished, Maturin coolly registered Ron's presence and decided to change the subject before one, or both, of the teens conked out from heatstroke. "...And on that note," he said loudly in the direction of the water cooler, "There are a few basic outpatient guidelines I have to go over..."

The rest of the squad, sensing the artillery barrage over, shuffled back over and clustered around the bed, listening to the surgeon.

"First off," said Maturin, "Even though we've put you though an aggressive rehabilitation process, you will still walk out of this hospital with your bandages and a moderate bit of pain. You will probably feel weak and wobbly for the next week. You may suffer mild flu-like symptoms within the next thirty-six hours as a side effect of the Oxycyte. We are providing you with a small supply of oxycontin to manage the pain, which will be intense. Follow the provided directions and doses exactly. The stuff is horrendously addictive if misused. I certainly hope someone of your character would know that."

Kim nodded adamantly.

"…And since your mother is a physician, she'll know how all about that and can monitor your intake. Ron has been given supplements to help his shoulder heal. I'd feel comforted if your mother could monitor him on those, too…

"That said, you will still be able to _walk_, albeit slowly, and the recovery process will take, at maximum, four weeks, instead of the several months common for these types of injuries…. To further facilitate it," he said, now frowning vaguely in annoyance, "The Pentagon is _insisting_ on putting you on a regimen of inject-entry steroids… They're not Barry Bonds steroids, exactly," he added quickly to Kim's expression of alarm. "Too low of dose… They are designed to maintain your muscular trim during your period on inactivity…." Stephen paused and cleared his throat. "So, Kim, for the gritties… I recommend sticking to liquids or mushy food for the next few days; your intestines will be rather sensitive. During that period, keep near a loo. Try to remain as quiet as possible for the next week, and no climbing, jumping, running, excessive stretching, martial arts, etcetera, after that. Essentially, no world-saving for a month."

The cheerleader's eyes bugged.

"Yes, I'm sorry about that, but I don't want the sutures to rupture. Speaking of stitches… A local doctor can remove the surface ones, and the gut stitches will dissolve as the body heals. Your major wounds, the abdominal and thigh lacerations, will leave scars. Thankfully, your robust immune system greatly reduced the amount of scar tissue, but… You'll have a thin, curving, three-inch-long scar running diagonally above your navel, crossing the original impact point. Your thigh scar will be unremarkable; a three-quarter-inch white dot consistent with a bullet wound. It would be possible for you to cover it with – What's the term for them now? Hot pants? …Should you so decide."

Kim inclined her head slightly, expression unreadable. Ron alone noticed the girl rolling her lips tightly together; her sign of sadness and inward turmoil.

"Well… I think that's everything," said the surgeon. "Any questions?"

"Ummm… well…." she said uneasily, glancing around at the network of medical machines surrounding her, "…H-how much is all this going to cost?"

Maturin smiled gently. "No cost."

Kim blinked. "Err… Come again? I think some of the explosions may have rattled my eardrums."

"I said no cost. The military is picking up the tab. Besides, it was an honor to meet you, Ms. Possible. That alone is payment enough. Pity it was through such trying circumstances."

"Wow…. wow…. You've just bumped to the top of my favor list."

"It was nothing," Stephen said. "And you owe me no favors. I am duty-bound to help anyone in need… Anything else?"

"Nope."

"Then I wish you good luck, Kim," he said, again shaking her hand, "I'll be heading back to Afghanistan... Try not to get yourself gut-stuck again."

"Yessir!" she said with a laugh. With a parting salute to Simms, the doctor broke away, strode down the ward, and vanished behind the swinging exit door.

After he left, Mr. Barkin one-armedly dragged forward several chairs and the rest of Special Forces unit sat down around the bed.

"Hmph….So he _can_ be warmer than an icicle," said Simms, glancing toward the flapping swing door. "There must have been something about you he liked…. Reminded me a bit of House, if you ask me," he finished with a grumble.

"…You just don't like him 'cause he's British," retorted Dr. Director, nettled.

Kim sensed a red storm rising and quickly headed it off. ".....So, uh, guys…. How did you find out I was in trouble in the first place?"

Ron opened his mouth. A syllable halfway off his tongue, he stopped and glanced uncertainly at Simms. This time, the general smiled slightly and nodded.

"Well…" the teen started, "It was right near the end of the fight…"

* * *

April 26, 2007  
Great Hall  
11:18 AM

Sweat plastering his blonde hair to his forehead, he slammed back-first into the redoubt. Ron's breath came in sharp, burning heaves. Almost deaf from the explosions and gunfire, nearly blind from the sweat and blood trickling into the corners of his eyes, he wrestled with the carbine splayed across his chest.

Lactic acid cramps ran through his arms. His legs, never as well toned as Kim's, felt exhausted and rubbery. Numb. Fear for his girlfriend's life bashed around in the rear of his head, grinding him down to a nub. Instincts had taken over, his brain just along for the ride, pushing his body past normal endurance into a sort of subconscious physical netherworld.

_Oh… God…. I can't take much more of this…_

Rivulets of tangy sweat cut pale tracks through his dirty skin. Twisting his head back, he searched for intruders coming down from above while blindly wrenching an empty magazine from the bottom port of his gun. Scrabbling around with a free hand without looking down, Ron found a fresh magazine, dragged it out of its pouch, and slammed it into the M4. He gritted his teeth and rolled onto his knees. Taking a final deep breath, he popped over the brim and sprayed, not caring what he hit. His vision tunneled as the gun absorbed his world, rattling out his hearing and slicing bright tracer lines across his retinas. The wound in his shoulder seared as recoil rattled his bones. Abruptly, the firing cut off with a _chuk_, clip empty. Ron instantly dropped to the rubble again, ears ringing from the blasts. His fire had been oddly sharp and distinct. As he yanked out another magazine, he paused, the fresh box halfway into the air. An odd sound hit his ears.

Silence.

The final bullet twang reverberated into silence. Nothing answered it. Ron froze, hardly breathing. His brown eyes flicked back and forth, making sure this wasn't a dream. Or a trap.

Hardly daring to believe it, he rolled onto his stomach while clutching the M4 and cautiously peered over the rim. Still silence. The rubble dislodged by his movement echoed loud.

Before his eyes spread a landscape of destruction. Twisted, blasted pieces of metal and rebar, shredded bodies, destroyed supply mounds, a smoldering shell of a pickup truck, bullet pocks, massive, hissing impact craters. Gray, charred haze swirled gently around the wreckage like a hellish evening mist. A mind-bending metallic lunarscape created by a Dalí on LSD with a gray paint fetish. As he gaped, Ron saw the helmets and eyes of the rest of the team hesitantly raise from cover points around him. Barkin supported Dr. Director with his uninjured shoulder. Ben had bound his leg with a rudimentary splint made of two pieces of shаttered wood.

Nobody spoke.

"Is… is it… over?" Ron blurted disbelievingly at last.

In reply, Jonathan smoothly pulled out his service Colt .45 and fired a round toward the far wall. After a breathless second, it impacted, showering a sprinkle of rock shards to the floor with a light rattle. Nothing moved.

"I…. I think so…" Leigh said slowly, staring through the smoke drifting from the barrel of his M1911.

At his words, Ron fell to his knees, trembling, tears of exhaustion and relief coursing down his face.

_Oh god… I'm alive I'm alive I'm aliveI'maliveI'maliveI'malive…!_

He used his left shoulder sleeve to dry his eyes. When he wiped the cloth across his cheek and pulled it away, he found a smear of grime coating the black fabric.

Michaels and Wilson vaulted over the American defenses, boots crunching on the disintegrating concrete. They uncertainly swept their leveled M4s ahead of them, muscles tense, breathing tight. When still nothing happened, they relaxed slightly and signaled to the rest of the team. Those that were physically able jumped to the floor, the barricade facing the enemy blasted into vertical. The two covert ops set out ahead of the main group, back to back, scanning for signs of hostile life.

Ron wobbled to his feet. "H-has anybody seen R-rufus?" he asked shakily.

Simms dejectedly pointed toward the massive, smoking pile of rubble on the other side of the hall that had once been a door.

A blast of gunfire made them all jump, snapping rounds into their automatics.

"Sorry!" called Wilson, stepping from behind a gutted truck halfway across the room, his voice echoing in the silence, "He didn't look quite like he was dead…. But he was. At least, he is now…"

"Hey, Ron," yelled Michaels encouragingly, snooping around the other side of the truck, "We're headed down that way…. We'll keep an eye out for him." He held up a walkie-talkie for the teen to see and then rejoined Wilson. Walking another twenty feet, he peered into an uplifted section of floor.

"…Hey," he said quietly to Wilson as he squinted into the shadows beneath the slab. Flicking on a Surefire gunlight, he illuminated a small blob in the far corner. "Is that…?"

"Yeah… Think so." Wilson went flat on his belly and crawled in. "Yep, yep......." he whispered. "......Aww, Jesus, look at its leg… The poor little g –….. hey! Hey! Toss me a Quikclot! The thing's still breathing!"

Michaels crawled in beside him and handed him the bandage. "Ok… Ok… let's see if we can patch him up. We can come back around and get him once we've made a sweep. Don't tell the kid yet."

"Got it…. I think the rodent's gonna lose that leg, though. …Funny…. military school never told us about first aid for a rat…"

*

Forty yards away, the opening bars of "The Naked Mole Rap" blared from Ron's rear pocket. He reached behind and pulled out a Kimmunicator device clad in a lush hunter-green shell. It wasn't _The_ Kimmunicator, of course; that was Kim's deal. Wade had provided him with a simplified, personalized version of the device. Ron normally did not use it, as it was redundant to Kim's device, but over the past hour, it had become the team's single vital link to the tech master.

Kim had laughing dubbed it the "Ron-unicator" when she gave it to him (the term always gave him an odd sense of déjà vu), but this was no time for jokes.

"Sitch me," he said as the little screen illuminated to Wade's face.

"Oh, hey, Ron… I'm not picking anything up on the microphones… Everything over?"

The blonde glanced around. His fellow squad mates were fanning into the rubble, securing the room. "Yeah…. I-I think so."

"Cool…" the techie mumbled, surreptitiously firing off a status report to Mrs. Stoppable.

"Heard anything from Kim?" asked Ron anxiously, gripping the Lexan shell tightly with both hands.

"Nothing in a while… I… –"

As he spoke, a dim amber light flickered to life on one of his consoles, pulsing off his skin in the dark bedroom. Distracted, Wade glanced away from the webcam and squinted at a monitor.

"Wha'--?" he muttered, ignoring Ron. Becoming more engrossed in the LED, he swiveled in his desk chair and hunt-pecked a few keystrokes into a nearby computer. The computer churned for a second and then Ron saw an error message glint off the boy's large forehead. A small furrow creased the bridge of his nose. "That's weird…" he said slowly, half to himself.

"Huh?"

"I just lost all contact with the Kimmunicator…" Wade said uncertainly, hurriedly entering another set of keystrokes. "Usually, I'm at least getting a standby feed, but now…" He kicked off the desk edge and skidded his chair over to another computer. Once there, he fired a string of code up on the screen. Another error message appeared. "…Huh……There's a couple things I want to try… Stand by… Wade out." With that, the screen went black.

Ron walked over to Simms, Barkin, and Dr. Director, using the toe of his boot to check into crevices as he went.

His former teacher helped the woman to stand. She reeled drunkenly, grasping Barkin's good shoulder, a reddening bandage covering her patched eye. Blood trailed out her nostrils.

"You gonna be all right?" Barkin asked in a gentle growl.

"Id dink soh…" mumbled Elizabeth, sounding as if she had a massive head cold. "Eyme feelding kinda dissshy, thoudh…"

* * *

"…Betty collapsed a few minutes after we found you," interrupted Simms. "I don't know how she made it that long… Up the mezzanine, through those halls, and everything…"

Barkin gave Dr. Director a nod of admiration. She returned it with a sly smile.

"Somehow, we missed the fact that she was doing some serious internal bleeding into her sinuses and everything…"

"Hey, hey, who's telling the story here?" said Ron indignantly.

"Oh… Sorry. I'm used to cutting in on subordinates. A bad habit of mine…"

Ron shot him a cross look. "So, ANY-way…"

* * *

A walkie-talkie sizzled to life on Simms's hip.

::General…:: came Michaels's voice.

The slab-sided commander clipped it off his webbing belt. "Speaking."

::We're at the other end of the hall,:: he crackled.

Ron looked up. A hundred yards away, he could see two masses, one with a hand to his mouth. It was somewhat surreal to see Michaels's body but only hear him through the walkie.

::…Haven't found anything of Oliver yet… He's probably under the rubble somewhere.::

The sound of grunting and shifting rock emanated through the little speaker. ::Hold up… there's a gap in the rocks here. Checking. Over and out.:: The voice softened, as if he had turned away from the mike. ::Wilson, watch my back…::

A sigh of fabric on jagged concrete, a grunt, a thud of boots hitting floor. For some reason, it seemed the talk button was jammed.

::Fuckin' dark down here…:: A cackle of stones. ::Wilson… did you hear tha—HOLY SHIT!:: An explosion of gunfire deafened the microphone. ::...Scratch one sonofabitch, Wilson!::

Yelling ahead of wherever the radio was. A heavy, repeated, battering-ram whamming sound. Another grunt and thud of boots.

::Cluster-eff me, Michaels,:: came Wilson's voice, ::...Looks like there's a whole pack of them bottled up behind that ceiling fall.::

More fabric sighing, a scramble up rock. Ron saw two forms pop out of a hole in the floor before they vanished into the rubble.

On the radio, double exhaling thuds as both bodies took cover behind a concrete mass.

::Waddawe do?::

::Well, Michaels, it looks like they've got a fine Allah's Waiting Room set up…::

A dark chuckle. ::Frag 'em up?::

::You want the honors?::

::But if you insist…::

A rustle of clothing, followed by two light metallic pings.

::…FIRE IN THE HOLE, BEEEEYOTCHES!!:: screamed Wilson, flinging two fragmentation grenades into the crevice. A distant, surprised, terrified yell was followed a second later by a microphone-blowing double blast.

A split-second later, Ron and the rest of the squad heard the actual explosion, a deep, muffled boom that sent a geyser of gray dust billowing from the door rubble and spider hole. The tremble through the floor arrived a second later.

::Mop up!::

A jump. A landing thud. Barking M-16 fire. Screams. More gunfire. Fewer screams. More gunfire. One or two dying screams. More gunfire.

No screams.

::Well, that's everybody…:: came Wilson's voice, now heavy and flat. ::…Hey, Simms, we've checked it out down here, and…. Oh, jeeze! The mike's stuck on! Shi-!:: The crackling voice cut off with a snap.

"…Hmmm…" mused Simms nonchalantly, "I'll have to talk with them about their language…"

The rest of the team spread out again. Rattled by what he had just heard, Ron set out on a sweep around the hall, shaking his head.

_War… what is it good for?_

He trailed after Jonathan, who was checking under the mezzanine on the cavern's right side – the platform Kim had swung onto before vanishing into the fortress's bowels.

Directly beneath the mezzanine was a particularly sturdy blast door. A massive Javelin impact crater smoked three feet to its right. The blast had knocked the door partly off its hinges and jarred it open. Ron stood to one side as Jonathan put his shoulder to the door lip and gruntingly pushed it farther open. A black hole yawned before them. Light from the main hall traveled in a foot before stopping dead, illuminating only the first two steps of a crude staircase. Gesturing for Ron to stay back, Jonathan slid his Surefire tactical light off a Picatinny rail on his M4 and clicked it on. Even the 65 lumens provided by the Xenon bulb were not enough to penetrate the darkness. The beam scattered and refracted on heavy dust in the air and illuminated nothing.

Frame tensing, Jonathan lifted the flashlight beside his ear, arm coiled, bezels around the lens in striking position. He took step into the darkness and his body half-disappeared. Another thud down the staircase and he vanished completely. Ron stared after him, freaked, M4 clutched in firing position. His gloves were wetting out with sweat. A few seconds passed. Then a few more. Ron was about to rush in after him when Leigh backed jerkily up the stairs, walking in reverse. From profile, the blonde could see he looked flat-out stunned, as if he'd seen a ghost. Without a glance at Ron, Jonathan slowly turned his head back and forth between the black doorway and the crater a yard away. The color drained delicately from his face and his pupils contracted into dots.

"Ron…." he said shakily at last, "…Come…come see this… Bring your PDA. Wade might want to see this too…"

Thoroughly spooked, Ron activated the Ronunicator, clicked on the standard-issue tactical light beneath the barrel of his gun, and followed Jonathan into the hole. He discovered the steps, made of crude, worn, chipped concrete blocks, descended only a few feet. The main floor behind him was now at the level of his neck. It was like stepping into the shallow end of a drained pool.

With a loud crack, Jonathan activated a massive glowstick and held it aloft. Instantly, a cold green luminescence bathed the room.

"Holy… _shit_…" Ron breathed.

In the Shego-toned aura gleamed the orange skin of a truly gigantic bomb. Roughly the length of a school bus and at least four feet wide, the weapon rose to the height of Ron's chest even as it sat flat on the floor. Stubby, flat fins stuck out from each side. **GBU-43/C** was stenciled on its flanks in matte black lettering.

Taking his eyes off a long serial code beneath the designation number and the letters "USAF," Ron discovered himself standing amongst thousands of other bombs and ordinances of all yields and nationalities. A carefully arranged path, bordered with SAM warheads, led to the large bomb in the center. More explosives lovingly piled up and around the weapon as if it were a sort of twisted shrine. Spreading out around them were more shells, RPG munitions, crates of Semtex, and enough mortars for an army. The munitions completely obscured the floor, fading into the darkness beyond the cone of light.

"This… this… is the biggest cache I've ever seen…" Jonathan said faintly, "T-there's… there's enough in here to send the whole damn place sky-high… If that Javelin'd gone to the left about two feet…" he trailed off, looking horrified.

"Wade… You getting this?" Ron whispered, turning the Ronunicator screen outward and panning it in a circle.

Wade was getting it. He knew that both he and Jonathan instantly recognized the orange bomb on the floor before them, even if Ron did not. And as he stared at a freeze-frame of the serial number on the huge bomb, Wade felt a heady clinch of vindication.

Almost one year before, the fast combat support ship _U.S.S. Liberty Bay_ blipped off the radar as she cruised past the coast of Somalia on a round-the-Horn supply run to Iraq. The military immediately launched a massive, frantic, three-branch scramble. One would have thought the Navy had misplaced an aircraft carrier from the curious intensity the Army, Navy, and Air Force scoured the search grid, but nothing was ever found of the ship or crew. The _Liberty Bay_ simply vanished. News of the search never reached the public. Wade only discovered blowback of the hunt when pursuing one of his off-time hobbies, reading defense budgets. An inordinately large chunk of change had black-holed into the retrieval of a seemingly unimportant vessel. Intrigued, Wade dug for months into the dark recesses of U.S. Army shipping records. Working on it as a side job from Kim's operation, he slammed into 404 Page Errors, security clearances, and infuriatingly circular forms that tantalized with hidden references but led nowhere. Finally, less than six weeks before the current operation, Wade finally found the reason behind the massive, secretive search, hidden away in tiny print on page 674 of a 1243-page supply list.

Buried under 3,162 pairs of boots and 2,578 MREs was a MOAB. A Massive Ordnance Air Blast. The Mother Of All Bombs. 18,700 pounds of explosive power and a blast radius of over four hundred and fifty feet. Top-secret delivery to U.S. Iraqi command, to be used as part of renewed shock-and-awe tactics to cow militias into lining up behind the fledgling Iraqi government.

The final pieces fell into place as Wade gaped at the carrot-colored skin gleaming under the unwavering, ethereal light. Capture by Somali pirates. Transfer to Al-Qaeda as a prize of war.

Ron clicked off the PDA as the webmaster began typing furiously and followed a stunned Jonathan out of the armory.

The blonde demolitions expert marched up to Simms and tapped him on the back.

"…Sir, we found something that might interest you."

"What?" he asked, twisting around irritably, breaking off his conversation with a returned Wilson and Michaels.

Leigh jerked his thumb toward the open door and smiled slightly. "Leader Alpha-Charlie-Whisky-Foxtrot."

The general's mouth fell open.

"…Wilson, Jonathan, Michaels," he barked after a stunned pause, "Gut this place out. Files, papers, anything of intel value. If you find anyone alive, hog-tie them and drag them with you, if possible."

"Yessir," clipped Jonathan, and he and the two other ops set off at a run.

Further orders were cut short as the Ronunicator sounded in its owner's pocket again. Ron pulled it out and turned it on. Simms and the rest of the squad huddled around him, listening in.

"…Hey," said Wade, now looking rather worried, "Just calling to tell you I still can't regain contact to the Kimmunicator, and...–"

A small red diode sprang to life beside the amber one and began flashing, throwing Wade's face into a relief of alternating red and yellow splotches.

"…What the Spock…?" he hissed, unnerved. He stared into his flat panel display, mouth slowly hinging open. Peering dumbfounded at an alert message, his eyes suddenly popped wide. "Uh-oh…."

"Uh-oh? Uh-oh?! _Waddya mean, uh-oh?!?_" Ron snapped, voice rising, terrified. "Wade, this is no time for _uh-oh!_"

Wade ignored him, blurring his mouse as he clicked open a window. The bright white of a real-time graph reflected off his eyes. Through the reflection, Ron noticed all the lines on the chart were plunging. For a moment, Wade stared blankly at the screen, processing, inert. Then coming to life, he snapped around in the office chair and threw himself into into the viewscreen. "Ron… Get going… now!" he blasted into the mike.

"WHAT… IS… GOING… ON?!" roared Ron, now so afraid for his girlfriend he worried he was going to be sick.

"Her vitals… something… something's…. everything's blinking red!" Wade gasped, throwing himself over two keyboards at once. "I'm wiring the 126th Med right now…!"

"Wade…" Ron pleaded, "Where is she? How did you find her?"

The black teen paused in his typing, suddenly looking very uncomfortable. "Welll… I… I…" Glancing at the blinking lights, he broke. "…Please don't tell Kim this, but…. I, uh, used her chip… I… didn't tell anyone this, but… about ten minutes before her operation… I inserted a line of code into the programming, aaaaannnnd…. Annnnd… I doubled the language chip into a tracking device…"

* * *

"HE DID _WHAT?!_" Kim screeched.

"I know... Can you believe it?"

"I am soooo gonna... Rrrrr.....!"

* * *

"...It… uh… gives me information on position accurate to eleven inches… and biometric information… that is… identical… to yours…" Wade finished very quietly.

"Oh, thank god, so if you've found her, that – _HEY!_" Ron said, relief flashing into anger, "Identical to my *WHAT*?!"

"Not important right now," said Wade quickly, eyes darting as he brought another window onscreen, "…So all the vitals data I've been telling her about? I kinda fudged it a bit when I said I was getting the data from electrodes in her clothing… Anyway, the chip runs off the electrical impulses generated by the brain, so…"

As the African-American's eyebrows disappeared into his forehead, the entire screen behind the graph started blinking red. "Holy Babbage…" His pupils tracked the downward paths of electrical current, heartbeat, respirations, and blood pressure. He glanced up to find Ron's white face pressed to the screen. "…RON! I'LL LEAD YOU! JUST GET GOING, DAMMIT!"

"Okay!" he shouted, plunging the device into his pocket and pulling out his blue grappler from a side holster. Turning, Ron fired it into the wall above the platform and tugged the carbon-fiber wire tight. He was about to ascend when he realized Simms and the rest had remained motionless, staring openmouthed at him.

"You heard him!" he snarled angrily, "Don't just stand there! C'mon! Move, move, move…!"

* * *

"…Wow," said Kim, staring at her boyfriend as he finished, "Wow.... …Mr. Take-Charge He-Man. Are you going to become the next Ahh-nuld, or something?" She grinned.

"I don't think so, KP…" he said with a small smile, "I've heard they don't serve nacos at the breakfast shoots." The redhead giggled. "Seriously – Oh, no, now I've got 80's glam music running through my head – Seriously, I don't know happened… I just realized you were in trouble, and something just… I dunno… kicked in… You've saved my hide a bajillion times and counting, so I guess it was time to return the favor."

Kim nodded. "I'll say," she said with a loving smirk, "…I've been bailing you out since Pre-K!"

"So… so… after we did that… Wade led us along to… to… –"

Kim gently put a finger to her friend's lips. "You don't need to…"

"Uh-uh?"

"Nope…" She looked into his eyes. "…So tell me, how in the world did you get that massive bomb out of there?"

"I never said that…" growled Simms, crossing his arms.

Ron now looked oddly sheepish. "Umm…KP…" he said, embarrassed, "I…I think I took your job…."

"Whaddya mean?"

"Welllll… well… you know how i-it's… it's… usually… you… who presses the big red button at the end…?"

Kim's eyes bugged. "You… did… not…" she stammered, "You… did… _not_…"

Ron just blushed.

* * *

April 26, 2007  
Afghanistan  
11:27 AM

Icy April mountain wind sliced furrows through his sweat-darkened hair as it hissed across the countless sandblasted mountains reaching for the horizon in every direction.

Ron once again stood upon the quarry bowl rim, looking down at a bustle of activity on the canyon floor a hundred feet below. The shiny outer blast door was now a black, twisted scar on the rock. Al-Qaeda sentries lay horizontally on the dirt; MPs were hastily zipping their forms into body bags. Other MPs scurried in and out of the destroyed door, carting massive handfuls of documents and occasionally, in pairs, an entire filing cabinet. Red-crossed medics hastily prepped their charges for transport up a stretcher lift system to Ron's right. The lift currently transported able-bodied survivors and reams of soon-to-be-classified documents up the cliff.

He did not see a blot of auburn hair.

_Must still be prepping inside…_

As Ron slowly lifted his reddened eyes, he saw four olive-drab Medevac Black Hawks begin their final speed-bleed to touchdown, swirling in a large circuit above the canyon bowl. Thirty seconds later, they landed behind him, the heavy pulse of their turbine engines slamming up through the soles of his feet.

He ignored them. Standing straight and bending slightly backward, he spread his arms into a "T" and exposed his body completely to the stinging wind. He closed his eyes, squeezing scalding tears onto his eyelashes.

_Wash me clean... This's been too much the drama... Wash me clean..._

He needed to forget. Forget what he'd just seen. What he'd just done. Forget the tiny flecks of skull and cooled blood scattered across the gray knees of his pants. His eyes and brain felt tired. Exhausted. Waterlogged. Dead. Looking up again, he locked on the jagged mountain fortress, a death factory hidden beneath its stone shell. Never had he wanted to be simply wiped of a place. See it gone. Not even when Drakken hijacked his beloved Bueno Nacho.

Thirty yards away, Simms leaned against one of the three RAH-80 Comanches that had brought the combat medics and MPs. He nestled a satellite phone against an ear, flipping through a folder of papers he had found, incredibly, upon Ayman al-Zawahiri's cold, dead chest. As he spoke, he balanced an M-16 in the crook of his arm, keeping it trained on the twenty or so trussed, gagged, and blindfolded al-Qaeda fighters huddled into a temporary enclosure of concertina wire.

"…….Yeah, so, wire central command that we've got a mass of bloodies that'll be comin' in Code 3….. No, I can't give you specifics…. Wadda I sound like, a medic? All you need to know is that they're leaking like hoses. Anyway… Tell them to open up the closest sawbones able to handle what we have… Thanks. Over and out."

He closed the call and dialed a new one. "…Yeah, hello? This is Operation Phoenix Talon, clear-code Whisky-Whisky-Tango-Delta-Niner…. Get me to POTUS, now."

His broke off his transmission for a moment as the helo medics' radios crackled to life.

::Everybody's up! Casualties, on their way!:: shouted a 68W out of one of the walkie-talkies.

"10-4, ready when you are," said Mike, one of the chopper pilots. He signaled to the rest of the topside medics.

::Roger.::

Ron leaned over the canyon rim. Below, he saw a scramble of activity around the lift system. Four high-tensile wires led from the canyon floor to a system of pulleys on a small triangular scaffolding to his right. The metal pyramid had a small two-stroke engine lodged in its apex. At the bottom, a backboard with victim latched onto the two center ropes, one at each end. Two medics in sitting harnesses strung themselves to the outside ropes and locked themselves into ports built into the stretcher. As they prepared, another two took over life support. The radio crackled in confirmation, and the two-stroke whined to life. Swiftly the odd group ascended the cliff face, the mountaineers keeping the casualty level with their knees and continuing assisted breathing. At the top, another pair of medics grasped the stretcher.

An ambu bag traded hands and they hustled Matt into the nearest waiting chopper. His chest rose and fell weakly. Blood gurgled from bandages on his chest and out of his mouth. In the helo bay, a medic with elbow-length gloves plugged him with IV lines and a tracheal tube. As he did so, a small vitals beeper began flashing and the 68W galvanized into action.

"Uh-oh, Code Blue!" he shouted over the rotor thump, already beginning chest compressions. "…Aaaannnnd ONE and two and three and four and five and six..........!"

Once relieved of its human burden, the lifting plate quickly dropped back to the bottom. In rapid succession, wounded al-Qaeda members ferried up the lift and were dashed to the choppers, perhaps more roughly than their American counterparts.

Dr. Director ascended second-to-last. She was unconscious and trussed up on a backboard. Her right eye was now a mass of bandages, a circular clump that stuffed down into her eye cavity. Red, yellow, and clear fluids stained the edge of the cotton gauze. Her eyepatch dangled in tattered shreds out of her pocket. As she mounted the cliff lip, Barkin rushed to her side, then gently helped transfer her to the chopper with his good arm.

* * *

"…What, all this helicopter action and nobody's yelling, 'Get to da choppa!'?" Kim interjected wryly.

"KP, shush."

"Right, sorry."

* * *

Ron turned, closing his eyes to the carnage, and gave the dirt an angry, venting kick. The blow stirred up a boiling mushroom cloud of dust. Through squinting eyes he stared at the rising bubble of powder, suddenly struck with an idea. Straining until gray matter bubbled out his ears, he finally secured the random tidbit of information in his mind and deftly flicked on the Ronunicator.

"Wade..." he said firmly as the young teen's face flickered into view, "I needed you to access the remote-electrical access component of one BLU-120/B, serial code number…." He gritted his teeth, thinking his way into a migraine, "…60702-40805-21007."

"Um, Ron, that's some serious technical work… and isn't a 120/B the body section of a MO –"

"Yeah, yeah. Just get in there."

"Ooookaaaayyyy…" said Wade, puzzled, "This might take a little longer than usual…" He slammed into his keyboards, riffling through six different electrical tomes as he did so. Two minutes later, one of his machines beeped. "All right, blondie, I'm in… Funny, I wouldn't have guessed one of the access codes would be a line from _Dr. Strangelove_…"

"Okay, right, so," said Ron, speaking fast, "Overload the main load wire by 2.4 ohms, backsurge to the ampere junction, while simultaneously spiking the lead wire and holding down the X-button – uh, I mean, routing an AGS date code."

"Ron, what _are_ you…?"

"Doubt me? Try cranking it through you electro testing stuff-thingies."

Throwing wary, suspicious glances at Ron, the geek typed up the codec and hit "test". He let it run. As the results cranked down his computer screen, his frame sagged further and further into his ergonomic chair, mouth half-open. Seeing enough, he hit the enter key again. "Ron…" he goggled, not quite believing what he was seeing, "That'll… that'll… _work…_ Disrupt the surge protector, override the safeties, backlog the current, and…" The sidekick saw Wade mouth the word "boom."

"Exactly," Ron said, voice edged with a hint of pride. He wasn't used to seeing the genius boggled. Especially not by him.

"How did you…?" Wade gasped, "Where did you…?"

"Not important right now."

"But… but… you can't… Think of the diplomatic repercussions…! Think how it would make the US look…! Each one of those babies is a hundred thousand dollars each…! And…! And…!"

He cut off as the medical radios squawked again. ::…OK, last one up! Steady as she goes!::

Ron turned the screen around. He and Wade watched as two medics burst out the shattered, still-smoking blast door and sprinted across the sandy floor, carrying a stretcher between them.

:: OK, Mike, we're the last ones down here. This kid ain't lookin' too hot. Get the birdies singing; this is gonna be a tight milk run, over.::

"Ten-four, over," said the medevac leader. He leaned out the cockpit window, making a circular motion with his index finger to the other pilots while shoving his own helo's throttle forward. The Hawk's turbine spooled up to takeoff speed, momentarily flinging up a spray of dust. The rest of the choppers followed suit.

Ron's throat ran cold as he watched the final stretcher hook up to the lifting lines. He pressed his upper teeth hard against his tongue. He hated the resulting pain. It told him this wasn't some nightmare.

Simms voice drifted in the background, bouncing around his ears, meaning nothing. _"…And the pilot light's out..."_

The lifting two-stroke growled and the backboard cranked upward. As it lifted, more and more details of the victim's long red hair became visible. Ron's eyes quivered slightly as Kim rocked over the cliff ledge. His one tried-and-true friend lay limp on the stretcher. She was so white. Shego white. Dead white. Eyes closed. A delicate trickle of blood ran out a corner of her mouth and down the side of her cheek. The red was stunning, almost surreally beautiful, against her bleached skin. Her head lolled sickeningly as the board switched medics. Ron couldn't tell if she was breathing. As the medics dashed her to the nearest helicopter, they passed right by him. He reached out a hand and fleetingly passed his fingers over her skin.

_C'mon, baby… Hang on for me… Hang on for the Ran-san… I need you to need to hang on… I need you, Kim…_

Her flesh was cold as ice.

He turned, mouth thinning into a tight, hard line. With dry, dead eyes, he looked from Kim as she was rammed into the chopper bearing Matt, to the fortress below him, and finally down to Wade's face. His decision was made.

"Do it…" he mumbled quietly.

"Ron…"

"I said do it!"

"But…"

"I… DON"T… CARE!" Ron screamed into the screen, unexpectedly exploding, "Once again, I'm on the verge of losing everything I've ever cared about! …DO IT FOR ME, WADE! DO IT!"

Startled, Wade recoiled from the monitor and reflexively leaned on the button.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then –

A low, deep rumble. In tandem, a small earthquake coursed through the ground, rattling small, loose stones. Several people twisted around, alarmed. Even before the rumble faded came a heavy series of muffled booms, like huge dominos crashing into each other, faster, faster, louder, louder.

Then without warning, the front of the complex exploded in a massive fireball. Ron saw, for a blink, the shаttered door propelled outward, riding the blast wave like a surfer, before the pyroclastic roar enveloped it and it vanished. Everyone whipped around, gaping, eyes wide.

Another set of dominoing booms rocked the air as the explosion ripped through hallways and rooms and cellars and weapons caches and secret compartments. Blasts of rock dust and flame erupted from random spots, indicating hidden windows and spy holes. Geysers of ash and compressed air shot from the honeycombed mountain, out the back, out the sides, even out portions of the cliff itself. Ron took a step back, now half-terrified of his creation.

The detonations rebounded upon themselves, sucking back in. Then the grand finale. In a blast that shook heaven and hell, the entire top half of the mountain disintegrated, a death scream, flinging huge rocks vertically into the air. The enormous shrapnel climbed half a mile before falling straight back down, back into a now-collapsing pyroclastic column of rock and ash. Dust began to fall like a light drizzle.

"Yeah… central command…?" Simms was saying, "Connect me to the 101st and tell 'em to fire up the zoomies…"

As the roar and shockwave reached him, he jumped a mile, jammed his hand over the transceiver, and snapped around. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the explosion. "…Mo-ther _fuck-er…!!!_"

Ron stood at the verge of the cliff, watching in stunned, terrified awe at the result of his action.

Gradually, a small, vengeful smile traced across one side of his mouth. _They're done. It's done. I'm done. It's out and gone. Don't need the rage… Let it go… Let it go…_

Suddenly, a massive set of fingers closed like a vice around his neck from behind. The iron grasp then lifted him bodily into the air. He choked, stars and spots popping across his vision. He yanked at the ironbound sausages. No use. The grip then turned him 180 degrees in the air and slammed him flat on his back into the dirt, fingers still closed around his neck.

"What in the _fuck_ were you _thinking_, boy?!"

It was Simms.

"What in the _fuck_ was that?!" he shouted as small shards of rock and metal began to rain down, "WHAT… DID… YOU… JUST… _DO?!_"

"Just saved Uncle Sam several thousand dollars worth of jet fuel, sir!" Ron gasped at him, eyes blazing.

"BUT THAT WAS UNITED DAMN STATES GOVERNMENT PROPERTY YOU JUST BLEW UP!" he roared, pushing him harder into the dirt, "What of all the documents that were in there, huh?! What if there'd still been still some head honchos in there, huh?! Now we'll never get them, and it's all because of _you!_"

"Uh… actually, sir," spoke up a rather white-faced MP, tapping him hesitantly on the back, "We've got a treasure trove of documents right here…"

"Huh?"

The MP pointed to the filing cabinets and stacks of blowing paper. "You ordered us to get them, remember? We've got enough here to keep the CIA spooks busy for six months."

"Oh… but… but… what about anybody still inside?"

"If you'll remember, sir, all our forces have gotten out… although I won't want to be here when the all that starts falling out…" He gestured toward the sandy-colored mushroom cloud rising over the hideout. "The fighters over there…" – meaning the trussed men surrounded by barbed wire – "Were all we were able to take alive… The rest either committed suicide or had to be… subdued."

"Oh… um… right…. Uh, sorry, Ron…" said Simms, releasing the teen's throat as if it burned and jumping away from him, "Lost my head for a moment there… My own little Patton moment… my apologies…"

"Whatever…" Ron grumbled, standing up and dusting himself off. Rubbing his sore neck, he shot daggers at Simms. "You would have used the MOAB on something similar anyway… You said yourself that an airstrike was coming in after us. …And now you don't have to worry about anybody looting the gear. A two for one. The reason Smarty Mart stays in business."

"Hey, guys," broke in a medic, the one with elbow-length gloves. He leaned against the chopper door, braced against the backwash, shaking lactic acid out of his arms. A partner continued Matt's CPR in the interim.

"….two and three and four…!"

"…While you two've been standing here yelling…"

"…six and seven and eight and nine…!"

"…My guy here's lost about a liter of blood. So how about we get going?"

"…Eleven and twelve and thirteen and fourteen…!"

"Holy sheeeyot, you're right!" Simms shouted, "Ron, go! Get to da choppa!"

* * *

"Yessss! Called it!"

* * *

Simms, Jonathan, Ben, and the two medics jumped into the helicopter containing Kim and Matt. Ron made to follow them, but another medic herded him toward the second helo.

"No, boy, you don't want to see that… You don't want to be there if it happens…"

"No! I can't!," he said, struggling, "You don't understand! K-Kim's my… my…"

"I understand, son… And it's a lot worse when you're there and can't do anything. Trust me. I know. C'mon. We'll all make it. Everybody's going to make it."

Choking back tears, Ron complied and rolled into the helicopter bay as larger pieces of rock from the explosion began to hail down, pinging off the metal skin and zinging into the screaming rotors. He looked up at the darkening sky.

_...Here comes the rain again,  
Falling from the stars;  
Drenched in my pain again;  
Becoming who we are..._

The pilot kicked the cyclic forward, powering to full throttle, and the engine rose to a throaty roar. The skids licked the ground, cackling on the loose sand and gravel before lifting off the earth in a gentle swoop.

Mike reached for a CB radio affixed to the dash.

"...Mama Echo 21 calling Charlie Base hospital. Mama Echo 21 calling Charlie Base, over. ETA is eight minutes......."

* * *

"...So, after the sawboneses got you stabilized and fixed up a bit," finished Simms, "We all got loaded into a C-17 late that evening and flown to Landstuhl… Had to be _the_ quietest flight I've even been on… Both you and Elizabeth were conked way out by this time … Maturin rode with us, making sure you stayed down… Director was kept under sedation for about 48 hours and woke up about two days before you. You really scared us for a while… the docs said the coma was supposed to last only three days, but when you didn't wake up after that… Ron wouldn't leave your side. We had to frog-march him to bed each night..."

Ron, listening to the wrap-up, now looked rather subdued.

Simms smiled slightly. "We were all pretty stressed out… I've got to thank you, though… I've been trying to lose five pounds for the last month. With your help in the past four days, I've lost six….. Much to the dismay of my dietician, you decided to rejoin us and seem all the better for it."

Kim grinned slightly. She felt her strength gradually returning as she stayed awake.

"Hey, Kim..." said Jonathan, unable to keep his mouth shut, "I wondered… Sorry if I'm…. But…. did… did you…" He paused, opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, mouth forming over silent vowels. "Uh... _see_ anything when you… you…" He trailed uncertainly. Instead of a word, he made a horizontal wiggling movement with his hand, as if representing a flat line.

Kim felt a strange, tight flip-flop in her chest. "Nooooo…." she said slowly, lying through her teeth.

Jonathan now looked rather uncomfortable. "Oh… Okay…. Sorry to bring it up…"

"No big…" She shifted her attention to Ron to dispel her unease. "So… truth time, buster," she said, playfully ruffling his hair, "How *did* you school Wade in the fine, cultured art of blowing stuff up..? Spill…" She grabbed Ron and dragged him close, so their eyelashes were almost touching, then growled seductively.

He straightened up, grinning. "Okay, well…" he muttered quickly, cheerfully embarrassed, "You know that _Splintercell: Nightshade_ game that came out for the Z-Boy 820° a few months back that I've been playing nonstop…?"

Kim slumped into the pillow, staring at him. "Oh, God.... not the video games agaaaiiiain!" She quirked an eyebrow.

"No, no, no no, wait…! I'm serious this time! One of the super-secret levels you can unlock after beating the entire game on God level is this bomb squad game. You have to disable this MOAB underneath the Sears Tower… It's totally cool; there's stats and schems and diagrams and and and _everything!_"

As he listened to Ron babble, Simms's eyes narrowed into hostile slits. "_Nightshade…_ That's the game Clancy and Crichton co-developed, isn't it?

"Err, yeah. …Why?"

Simms did not reply, instead reaching for a walkie-talkie on his belt. "Williams…?" he said, clicking it on.

::Yes?::

"I need you to get your hands on a copy of _Splintercell: Nightshade_ ASAP.… Oh, and what is the current status of Tom Clancy and Michel Crichton?"

::Clancy is on sabbatical, sir, and Crichton is hosting a conference on his State of Fear book.::

"OK, I want them monitored… A couple wiretaps, internet histories, maybe a surveillance team or two. Dig around for an excuse in Patriot Act III's small print… National security, or some bullshit like that."

::What's you call on warrants, sir?::

The general sighed. "Williams, what's standard Administration policy?"

:: Oh, right, sir... I forgot for a moment there. I'll get right on it, then.::

"See that you do." He shut off the radio with a self-satisfied nod, ignoring Kim's incredulous expression at the blatant disregard for Constitutional rights.

"Patriot Act… Three?" she said, the term lingering in her mouth like fetid water.

"Oh, yes, I never had the chance to tell you… The GOP proposed a third installment to the Patriot Act on the 26th. Cited the recent terrorist threat, called anybody who disagreed with it "terrorist-lovers," and rammed it through both Houses in six hours… Nobody got a chance to look at all the riders," he said, looking pleased. "…Fear is _such_ a wonderful thing for getting stuff passed…. Cheney had originally wanted to keep news of Osama's death under wraps, so, ya'know, we could still have a boogeyman to toss around… But…. In the end...."

He shrugged equivocally.

Kim looked disgusted. "So… what's happened since then?"

The complacent smug immediately slid off Simms's face. He bowed his head. "Oh… man…" he murmured, "…Well... Bush will fill you in on the home-front sitch when you get picked up, but as for the global…. It's…. it's… it's…" He wavered his hands, searching for a term.

"– Ever heard of the 5th Street Tube station?" he shot abruptly.

"Errr…?"

"...One ton of aluminum nitrate," Simms cut bitterly. "A full damn ton of aluminum nitrate… They used this whole group of WASP converts, yaknow, so they didn't raise suspicion… Posed as a school group on a field trip, right down to heavily loaded backpacks. Dolled up all the guards by saying they'd heard about the American attacks, but they were still going to ride the Tube; they wouldn't let the terrorists "win…" By the time they all grouped together in the station hub and the bobbies figured out what was going on…" He shook his head, eyes closed. "...Things _had_ been kinda quiet internationally right after our attack. There was the whole 9/11 thing going on, yaknow?  
...Once news of Osama's axing got out, though, everybody just went in-_sane_… Fatwas and videos all over Youtube… The whole martyr spiel... Everybody is going ab-so-lutely nuts. Retaliatory strikes in India, Indonesia, Mogadishu… All sorts of crap on our end... Bush will fill you in on that. Britain had the station attack and a couple of other smaller things… Iraq… oh God, Iraq… This is the worst I've seen it since, well, okay, about a month ago, but _still_…!"

He took a deep, pained breath.

"….Iran and North Korea are in some serious hot water. Israel is screaming for us to let them wipe out Iran with a few of their "nonexistent" nuclear weapons… Our allies are pretty darn pissed at us. They're saying that things were on their way to normal until we had to go and wipe out al-Qaeda's figurehead… They're saying we should have seen this whole retaliation mess coming.... They're saying it would've been better if we hadn't killed him... As if he still wasn't going to be a problem… Like we had anything to do with the whackos attacking them... The world's pretty much on fire at the moment..."

"On a happier note, though," he added, cheering immensely, "Right after you got to the hospital, Uncle Sam sent a good ol' Fuck-You to Pakistan… A division of B-52's from the 101st carpet-bombed the good-for-nothin' watermelon-tar out of the Afghani-Pakistani border. …It's Operation Rolling Thunder all over again!" he chortled gleefully. "We've been wanting to do it for _ages_; All we really needed was an excuse, and 4/23 and the subsequent fallout worked out very nicely…"

It took a moment for him to realize what he'd just said. As he did, he clapped a hand over his mouth. Kim, Ron, and Mr. Barkin stared at him. (Dr. Director, Ben, Jonathan, Wilson, and Michaels's reactions all indicated this was business as usual)

Quickly deciding it would be too expensive to have the witnesses extradited, Simms lowered his hand. "That's not to leave this room…" he growled, glaring at the redhead, blonde, and high school substitute teacher in turn. "....So... so... anyway.... We'd taken out the main command center, and the surprise bombing sliced their communication lines and destroyed a good bit of their infrastructure… Al-Qaeda and the Taliban are reeling… Musharraf is freaking _out_ at us, of course… Wimpy little terrorist pansy…"

Simms grumbled for a moment before perking up again. "...But I've got news for you that's even better!"

"...Gee, what could _possibly_ be better than widespread death and destruction?" Kim muttered coldly.

Simms looked a bit unnerved by the edge to her voice. "Uh... uh... well... the President called about three hours ago... Congratulations. You've been awarded a Purple Heart for your injuries."

Kim stared at him, turning his words over in her mind. "I-I can't accept this," she said at last, mentally kicking herself for not being able to come up with something a jot more original.

"Sure you can!" said Simms enthusiastically, "Look at your stomach, for heaven's sake!"

"Yeah... but... I...I don't need a medal.... I do the whole world-saving thing 'cause it seems like the right thing to do... I'm not trying to get any special recognition out of it.... I'm not officially in the military, so it doesn't quite.... I mean... You should give this to somebody, of your people, I mean, who's actually earned it –"

"Earned it?! You took out the terrorist's Terrorist! You got wounded in the process, so your country owes a debt to you!"

"But... but... I've been world-saving for eight years, helping you guys out for at least six, and I've never needed any–"

"Pssssh," said Simms dismissively, waving a hand, "Times change.... Besides, your and Ron's medals have already been struck, and it'd, um, burn more carbon to find them, ship them back, melt the things down, and re-stamp them," he said, delivering a crushing right hook for the KO.

"Okay, okay, fine," said Kim, still feeling a little bit guilty. She suddenly brightened. "Wait... so Ron's getting one too?"

"Yep..." said Simms, "He got injured, same as you." At this, Ron stood up slightly straighter and made his bandaged shoulder a little more noticeable.

"...And what about you guys?" asked Kim eagerly, looking around at the bandages on Dr. Director, Barkin, Jonathan, Ben, and the rest.

The general deflated slightly. "Welll...." he said slowly, "Welll.... well, Kim, you see.... we really can't get medals... We're not supposed to exist, exactly... For our security, we can't have our names paraded across newspapers, you understand? See, people might try to Google me and find out what I'm really in command of –"

"But everybody _knows_ already!" burst out Ron.

"...And thankfully it's GJ policy to never ask questions... We've still got some classified stuff on SOG, so Barkin fell off a ladder while, um, painting his gutters and, um, landed on a ceramic garden gnome..."

Ron shuddered a bit at "garden gnome."

"As for Ben, Jonathan, Wilson, Michaels," Simms continued, "It's pretty much 'Don't ask, don't tell..."

Ben, Jonathan, Wilson, and Michaels glared sharply.

"Whooops, wrong one!" said the commanding officer, flustered, "Um, well, to put it another way, to be blunt, all their people pretty much know what happened, but it's regulations to go along with the story... You know - " He abruptly picked up a nasally German voice, "...I hear no-ting, I see no-ting, I know no-ting...!"

The two teens gave him a blank stare. Simms sighed. "You kids these days don't know any classic television... Go Google _Hogan's Heroes_ for me... sheesh..." He gave a cough. "ANY-way.... Johnson's pretty easy to paste over... that's your company's problem, anyway..." He nodded toward Wilson and Michaels. "Matt and Oliver are the stickiest ones, what with the Medal of Honor I'm mulling over for Oliver... They'll probably have the honor of being listed in the article with you two... Dead tell no tales, and all."

As he finished, Kim leaned back into her overstuffed pillow, arms crossed. This type of thing happened before, so it wasn't much of a shock, but she still didn't much care for it. The company she helped or the special ops group she assisted slunk back into the shadows while her name and picture alone were splashed across the TV and internet. It felt good to see her name in lights, but the subsequent backlash of hatemail and blistering telephone calls was not much fun. Neither was waiting for the mail because Middleton SWAT was checking it for letter bombs. After the family email inbox had been bombed for the sixth time in a month, Wade set up a private, secure line and a sophisticated screening system. The system worked well, but occasionally a crank got through. It always got ugly if her mom happened to pick up... The caller never knew what hit him. As for her own personal safety, Kim usually tried to push Theo van Gogh scenarios to the back of her head.

She mentally brought herself back as she heard Simms speaking again. ".....Everybody's been patting themselves on the back about your medal, by the way. Pelosi and Cheney did the standard bipartisan handshake and standard yap about how this all was a great step forward for America... You'll find your cell full of politicians saying congrats. Kerry even called Landstuhl to praise you for your Purple Heart."

"Wait... Kerry? John "I-Won-Three-Purple-Hearts" Kerry? That Kerry?" Kim asked incredulously, a grin beginning to spread over her face.

"The one and the same," said Simms, chuckling, "He called, saying he had heard that you'd been wounded, welcome to the George Washington club, that he's also a member of that unique order, he's got three of them, by the way, and to remember him if he decides to run in 2008." He finished with a bemused, exasperated shake of his head and a cough that sounded oddly like "Democrats."

In the pause, Kim floated back a comment made by the President during their meeting on the 24th. She instantly felt uncomfortable bringing it up. Picking out her words, she leaned forward off the pillow. "...I'm feeling really embarrassed about this, really," she said meekly, "But... hadn't Bush mentioned something about, erm, money...?

"Oh... that..." said Simms, deflating again, "Yeah... Sorry about that... Bush got a little ahead of himself... We snooped around in the fine print of the reward contract and discovered, apparently," he raised his fingers in air quotes, "Any individual who is working under the command/contraction/advisory of the US Government is unable to claim the reward. Close quote." He dropped his fingers. "The cash was created to encourage foreign governments to give him up... but, obviously, that didn't happen... Bush was his usual self about it, all "Rules are fer yellerbellies! Give 'er the money!" But the Treasury Department was all rule-of-law about it, and we can't give you the money directly. So, we're giving you the money indirectly... A million or so here to a firm designing stylish bulletproof clothing... a million or so there to transportation companies... a million or so given out to health agencies in the areas you visit... and so on.... 'Course, with Wade, it's a slightly different stor –"

The opening bars of "The Naked Mole Rat" cut him off.

"Speak of the devil," said Jonathan in a low voice as Ron pulled out the Ronunicator and handed the hunter-green device to Kim.

The back of her mind still preoccupied with Ron's story, Kim's eyes flared slightly as she flicked on the screen. "….Wade, how come you never told me I was chipped?" she shot at Wade before he could even begin to open his mouth, slicing through opening niceties.

Wade's face pained, and he glanced through the screen at Ron. "Why'd ya have to tell her?"

"She said there'd be a morat – morat – _stoppage_ of kisses if I didn't," said Ron morosely.

"Wade, why did you chip me and never tell me about it?" asked Kim persistently.

"Kim... I'm sorry..." said Wade, seriously remorseful, "I... I guess I got a little carried away after Ron's implant..." (Now it was the blonde's turn to look disgruntled) "...What with the Kimmunicator's GPS systems, I'd hoped to never use it, but..."

"... But it's still so ferociously unethical... How am I going to know you're not snooping around when we're doing..... stuff...?" She had to pause while her higher functions sandblasted away an unexpected rush of hormones.

"...Welll, I'm usually not aware of it unless the Kimmunicator becomes unreliable... But if you're so uncomfortable, I could schedge for your mom to dig it out of your frontal lobe..."

Kim paled. "Ummm, on second thought, I'm fine for now... I've been in enough hospitals for right now, thanks..."

"Good to hear it... Anyway, that's not why I called..." He panned the camera's fisheye lens and glimpsed the rest of the team. "Hi, general!"

"Wade," said Simms, acknowledging him with a faint nod.

"Have you told them yet?"

"Was just about to get to it."

"Explain anything about Rubicon?"

"Nope... forgot about that point, actually."

"Okay, then..." Wade turned to look back at Kim. She tilted the communicator so the LCD screen was visible to both her and Ron. "So, seeing as you don't know about it yet – the Rubicon virus launched on the 24th to exploit a newly-discovered flaw in Windows XP and Vista..." He was about to launch into a long, confusing breakdown on how the virus worked, but realized that Ron was already gearing up his trademark glassy-eyed stare and decided to skip it. "...Needless to say, it melted computer programming like Ebola. Soooo glad I've equipped all my systems with Boot Camp... I don't think the virus was originally supposed to be launch in tandem with the attacks, but I think the creators saw it as an extra chance to spread some mayhem... As far as I can tell, they did an all-nighter crack of their coding on the 23rd and made the virus open source – so hackers could tack on "improvements" to the original code and decrease its kill time. By the 25th, it went from a minor threat to a crusher 'cause some black-hats in Kazakhstan and Sri Lanka added some malignant code... "

"Does the virus's name have any connections to the river?" asked Kim. "We could start looking for the origin point in northern Italy."

"Don't think so... I think the creators wanted to imply connotations of a new stage; a point of no return... Anyway, the Internet was sorta an underground warzone all day on the 26th. The core military remained relatively unaffected, thankfully – they were running on a closed system. I rounded up a bunch of my hacker buddies and we tried to restore main hub functions. Microsoft headquarters, in fact, went to its knees, and I was a major help in getting them back online. Ironically, Bill Gates was unaffected, because he was running a Mac." Wade burst into nerdish laughter and spent the next minute trying to stop. "So – so, it was a major brownie point for the Web that is stood up as well as it did. Normal netizens found everything running really slow or ran into a lot of 404s, but like I said, we kept core functions running until the main web taskforces would move in with the heavy artillery... A version for Macs came along that evening, but I switched over to my own operating system and everything was blotted down by about 3 AM... Damn long day, I can tell you..."

"So everything's hakuna, right?" asked Ron.

"Nearly. There are still a whole bunch of websites to repair, not to mention the tons of normals who got their systems fried, but... the web itself took the strain rather well. It's had attacks before, but this had to be the biggest and best run. Props to decentralized systems... Anyway, here's what I'm getting to... this may seem like a bit of an ass-pull, but... Microsoft was sooo impressed by my performance that they've asked my to be a kind of out-of-office programmer... a consultant, of sorts, testing their stuff in the field... That sort of info is extraordinarily valuable to tech companies. It's nothing I haven't done before with startup groups, but this is the first time it's come plastic-wrapped in an incentive in the neighborhood of –" Wade abruptly cut off and looked up at the teens. "...Ron, are you sitting?"

"Yeeeaaaaahhh...?"

"And Kim, you to?"

"No, Wade, I'm actually tapdancing and doing the hula for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue."

Distracted, Ron glanced sideways at Kim, then shook his head slightly as if trying to clear something from his mind. On the edges of her vision, Kim saw Dr. Director rolling her eye again.

It also took Wade a moment to recombobulate his thoughts. "Right... right... so... Microsoft is picking me up to the tune of... of... – " he looked down at his spreadsheets and gulped, "...One-one hundred and th-thirty m-m-million."

_Clang!_

Ron dropped a small metal tray he had been absentmindedly twirling between his fingers. It swirled rattle-rattle-rattle on the linoleum floor before falling still. A series of spikes registered on Kim's EKG display. Everyone's heads snapped toward Wade's voice, attentions now focused as a laser.

"S-say t-that again, Wade," Kim said slowly, fighting hard to clamp down on an internal animal scream of _YEEEESSSSSSSSSS!_

"$130 million for an initial incentive, with a yearly $1.6 million hanger after that."

Silence. Then,

"Booo-YAAAH, I'm getting my pinkie ring back!"

"Ron, no," said Kim sharply, grappling with visions of herself in bling and forcing herself to calculate how many mosquito nets she could buy for African villages.

"Awwww, couldn't we at least get a gold-plated limo? I'd almost gotten the foam jets installed!"

_...Jets.... jets...._ She glanced up at Jonathan.

_...There's no way you can catch everything… Some get by... the Indonesian tsunami…If only there was a way to go faster_...... _…__I can save the world if I can just get there in time..._

"Um, J-jonathan," Kim said quietly, concentrating on her fingertips, "W-when did you say those scramjet things would be available?"

A slow grin spread across the blonde man's face. "By 2009.... Autumn 2008, if we can convince the CIA to release them early."

Kim lifted her head, looking at him. "I... I wouldn't s-suppose you would have a financial plan for that, would you....?" A grin began to break over her set face.

"I could probably angle for a bargain at $120 mil," he said cautiously, "... You more than deserve one of the things, and the real-world data you'd give us would help the Pentagon swallow the $70-million discount... Of course, then there's about nine and a half million worth of startup costs, overhead, technicians, initial fuel supply, and so on... And then a year's worth of hydrogen costs about 1.5 million..."

Kim nodded, inwardly cheering as the vision of herself in a McLauren disappeared under the roar of a HEDM misted-fuel engine.

Ron's smile, on the other hand, drooped slightly as the vague image of Kim in a diamond-studded swimsuit went poof.

"Anything else I should know?" asked Kim, her heart monitor finally returning to normal levels.

"Well, we're working on putting in scrammer runways around the world, but right now there's only two or three, max, in big countries like Japan and Russia and the U.S.... And there're none in underdeveloped countries like Sudan or Indonesia. The Air Force is pushing for at least one launch/land site in all NATO countries, though. Ironically, until a special supersonic corridor is set up over U.S. airspace, you can't take it cross-country except for a really big emergency."

"So I'll still need rides for the in-between bits?"

"Yep."

"Cool..."

"My team will tailor in a space for your car, though."

"Thanks."

Wade decided to jump before all the money vanished. "So, uh, I'll get cranking with your people about setting up those transactions.... Kim, Ron, in the meantime I'll shelve the roughly $500,000 worth of leftover cash into a Swiss bank account... I'll take some out of that for R&D, computer repairs, and replacing your guys's gear..."

"Wait... Can't you include our tuition as part of that claude?" Ron asked in growing dismay.

"Ron... "basic, average," remember..." Kim growled, hurrying in before Ron could launch into a puppy-dog pout. "Paying our own expenses paves the way for valuable life lessons –"

"Yeah, easy for you to say, coming from a girl with a brain surgeon for a mother and a rocket scientist for a father..."

Kim reached forward in bed slightly and gently grabbed Ron by the shirt collar. "This _girl_," she said lightly, "Gave up a good portion of her spending money so we could go to that conference on cheese... eh?"

Ron winced, and smiled embarrassedly. "Er, right... Point taken, KP."

The conversation was cut short as a small gaggle of female nurses descended from another part of the ward. "It's Miss... Possible, right?" said one of them in German-accented English, glancing between the redhead and a black-and-white photo on a sheaf of patient records.

"Yep," Kim said cheerfully.

"Roiite, so, we're here to get all those nasty tubes out of you and into some nicer things..."

As another nurse began to draw up a privacy screen, the first glared pointedly at the rest of the squad. They got the hint.

"Well... Give 'em hell, kid," said Simms, giving a small salute. The others murmured in assent.

Smiling, Kim deftly returned the salute. "I'll try to, sir. So not the drama."

Saluting one final time, Simms did a crisp heel-turn and strode off down the ICU, back ramrod straight as ever.

After a round of handshakes, the rest of the team followed him out. Finally, only she, Ron, and Mr. Barkin remained.

"Well, uh, see you around, Mr. B," said Kim slowly, her slender hand engulfed in his bear-like handshake. "We'll be hanging around Middleton once and while for service hours and stuff."

"Possible... Stoppable..." the teacher growled, giving them each a nod in turn. He made to walk away, then hesitated and turned around. "Remember the little comment I had made back in Washington? Well, I didn't get killed for all trouble, so you guys are off the hook for now... But I still got this nice little shoulder decoration, and teacher's comp doesn't pay for much, so that still means..."

Even Ron's freckles bleached. "You... wouldn't...!"

Mr. Barkin reached over and gave Ron a one-armed noogie, nearly dislocating the blonde's scalp. "I'm kidding, Stoppable!"

"How are you guys getting home, Mr. Barkin?"

The former Lieutenant shrugged. "Private military Learjet or C-17, my guess. We can't have any fanfare when we land. Simms said it's all been worked out, though."

The waiting head nurse increased her impatient foot-tapping to a noticeable volume.

"Until next time, then?" said Kim quickly, extending a last handshake.

"Until you kids rope me into your crazy stuff again," he replied with an uncharacteristic grin, taking the handshake and giving Ron one as well. Then he, too, turned and walked to the exit. As the portal flapped shut behind him, he joined arm-in-arm with Dr. Director, who had waited for him by the door.

The nurses closed in, turning off the monitoring machines and waiting for the IV tubes to drain out. Ron was hastily shooed into an adjacent corridor as one nurse began untying Kim's worn scrub top.

* * *

An hour and half later, Kim, in a freshly laundered mission outfit, stood with Ron inside a glass-walled jetway at Ramstein Air Base. She leaned on him for support. Her limbs felt weak from five days of total inactivity, and a low, steady ache in her abdomen wasn't helping matters. An adrenaline patch on her left shoulder, similar to a Nicoderm patch, gave her stamina; an ibuprofen patch on the other shoulder filtered the pain.

After she'd been disconnected from the machines, changed into a clean outfit (Maj. Geovonii had mailed her spare mission clothes from Kabul), and freshly bandaged, she was given a final outpatient check-down. A physical trainer examined the state of her muscles and wounds and deemed her fit to walk. A neurologist ran her through a series of mental exercises to make sure the forced coma or pain medications had not affected her brain. They hadn't, so she was free to go. A reinforced black limousine, driven by two stony-faced Secret Service agents, ferried them the three miles between Landstuhl medical center and the airbase that serviced it.

Now, in the boarding ramp, the teens leaned on a handrail and gazed out at the silent tarmac. The airspace around the air force base had been cleared in preparation for the President's landing. Secret Service agents stood at discreet distances around the airport. One leaned at each end of the extended jetway, unobtrusive as potted plants. Others were scattered around the edges of the emptied concourse. The agent at the tarmac end of the ramp, closest to the teenagers, occasionally checked a large black chronometer strapped to his wrist (which currently read 11:43:27 AM).

Kim's backpack slouched at her feet with Ron's, with various medical supplies scattered around their legs. Ron proudly carried a slender white box under his arm – his tattered mission clothes from that day.

Kim had had hers unceremoniously burned.

To her slight annoyance, she wore her twin holsters, gun on the right, grappler on the left. The army commander at Landstuhl had thought it would deter a spur-of-the-moment wacko. Privately, she agreed; she'd had her fill lately of knife-wielding wackos, but she still didn't much like the idea of packing heat.

There was something else churning in her mind besides hot lead, though. Kim slouched forward, draping her elbows on the handrail. Her reflection in the double-paned glass bit its lip. It'd been Jonathan who'd first inadvertently brought it up, but she had tried to shelve it to the back of her mind. She knew that was a bad idea, though, and so it continued to gnaw gently at her insides, waiting.

A Secret Service watch beeped at 11:45, and Kim's thoughts were distracted as all the agents suddenly snapped to attention. She carefully pushed off the rail and stood upright. Ron delicately put a hand on her hip so she could balance easier. After a quick smile of thanks, Kim looked expectantly into the overcast sky to the west.

A low roar heralded the President's arrival. As they watched, a small pair of dark objects emerged from over the horizon. The objects quickly materialized into a couplet of F-16D long-range fighter jets. In a commanding show of U.S. airpower, the sleek gray warbirds burst over, only a few thousand feet above the concourse. The cracking roar of the jets' turbofan engines struck a second after their shadows whisked by overhead, rattling the spacious windows of the jetway. Once past the terminal, the jets pealed up and away in blossoming twin chandelles before leveling out and crisply circling the airport.

Sixty seconds later, the massive, iconic 747 lumbered into view; seemingly ponderous and slow after the dazzling flash of the jets. Each of the four rich tones of paint – slate-blue, cyan, white, and the golden stripe around the VC-25's waist – gleamed from fresh polishing. Its four huge engines idling at a whisper, the plane floated over the ground, nose reared up in the final flare to touchdown. With surprising grace, Air Force One hit the ground dead-level, the sixteen wheels of the main gear releasing a magnificent cloud of bluish haze. As it cruised past the gate, engines howling in reverse, Kim could see the Presidential Seal on the airplane's flanks. The eagle's head pointed toward the olive branch, as always.

Within ten minutes, the mammoth airplane sidled up to the gate, towering over Kim's head. The hatchways latched together in a low whish of pneumatics. Below their feet, high-pressure hoses locked into special ports in the belly of the plane and began blasting jet fuel into the Boeing's tanks. A Secret Service agent at the concourse end of the jetway gave a thumbs-up to the one at the far end. That Secret Service agent then checked through a sliding door separating the jetway from the plane. After a receiving another thumbs-up from an agent on the other side of the door, the man opened the hatchway and beckoned the teens through. Another agent carried their luggage after them.

The President greeted them as they stepped over the threshold. The past few days had not been kind on him, Kim noticed. More of his hair had turned a grayish color, and there were lines on his face that Kim hadn't seen before. He was sixty, and for the time being, he looked it.

"Miss Poss'ble," he said in his characteristic Texan drawl, "And... and...." He leaned to a flanking USSS agent. "What's that feller's name again?"

"Stoppable, sir."

"Right... uh, Miss Possible and Mr. Stoppable, welcome aboard."

"Thank you, sir... And, uh, nice place you got here."

"Just got the carpets cleaned!" Bush chortled as he led them along a port-side corridor, pointing out bathrooms and other amenities as he went. "That, and some other stuff I can't tell you about until 2017."

Ron, ADD as ever, started peering around at everything, craning his neck to look down hallways as they passed. The accompanying Secret Service agent wished he had traded places with the guy carrying the football – a briefcase carrying the nation's nuclear codes – as Ron bombarded him with questions about Air Force One and if Bush had put new upholstery in President Marshall's room. Bush absentmindedly bobbled his head as he listened to the Secret Service wearily disavow the existence of a parachute ramp, bulletproof skin, and onboard air-to-air missiles, among others. When Ron finally got around to an escape pod, however, Kim saw a tiny grin slip over the President's face.

The short tour ended in a small lounge, roughly fifteen feet by twenty-five feet. The outer wall followed the curve of the airplane's skin. The walls and carpet were finished in a warm, smoothing cream color. Large windows ran along the starboard wall. Overstuffed leather recliners faced each other in a rough circle in the center-left of the room. The biggest recliner, facing the rear of the plane, was cattycornered near a window, giving an excellent view outside as well as a commanding view of the room. Leather couches and ottomans were positioned along the edges of the room.

President Bush plunked into the recliner by the window and yanked the footrest pull, covered by a cowboy boot. Kim and Ron sunk into recliners facing him. Unbeknownst to the teens, the rearward direction of the President's chair gave him a greater chance of surviving a crash. The Commander in Chief pressed a small buzzer button embedded in the armrest of his chair, and almost immediately the airplane began taxiing. Just five minutes later they were in the air, stopping only to receive takeoff clearance from the tower. As they took off, the airplane's thermonuclear EMP protection muffled the sound of the roaring engines.

_Things seem so slow now,_ Kim reflected as she watched the German countryside vanish below a layer of altostratus clouds. _That Scrammer takeoff was actually kinda fun… major adrenaline rush. This feels like Nana's Buick… That'll all change, though… That'll all change…_

* * *

One hour and thirty-five thousand vertical feet later, Bush broke a meditative quiet with a small grunt as he rolled over and reached behind his recliner. He produced a pair of small, square boxes with rounded corners, each covered in black velvet. Kim unpeeled her forehead from the Plexiglas window and looked up.

She'd been thinking about it again. As time passed, a tingle, a gentle, tense clench, slowly developed in her stomach and the bottoms of her feet. She knew, grudgingly, it would surface eventually. As with a sneeze, it was not a matter of if, but when.

Drifting out of her thoughts, she glanced over and gave Ron a gentle kick with her foot. Her boyfriend awoke with jerk, sleepily wiping a line of drool from his chin.

"Now that I have y'all attention," the President said gently, surprisingly natural now that he wasn't mangling over some pre-written speech.  
He held the boxes forward slightly in the palms of his upturned hands. Now fully awake, Kim and Ron leaned toward him. "By the power vested in me by the office of the President of the United States of America," he said gravely, "I now present you with the Purple Heart. Thank you for your service to your country."

Running her tongue nervously along the inside of her teeth, Kim carefully lifted the box from the President's hand, leaned back into the embrace of her recliner, and cautiously cracked the lid. The hinge, stiff with newness, creaked faintly. Inside lay the heart-shaped medal, cradled on white velvet. Washington's profiled face and the golden border winked in the light. A red-and-white George Washington coat of arms connected the medal to a strip of royal purple ribbon border with silver edging.

Kim rolled her lips together. She was still not sure she wanted this, but there was no polite way to return it. _Hopefully I'll like it more once things aren't so... sitchy..._

"Uh… Thanks," she said at last, looking up at him. Shaking his hand, she hoped her smile looked genuine.

Ron opened his box with a bit more warmth, mouth forming into a silent "Ooooo!" as he discovered the metal inside. It had to be, Kim realized, one of the few times her friend had been recognized for helping save the day. Usually, she thought with a slightly guilty ping, she took the spotlight while he waited for her in the wings. Kim glanced down at her wrapped abdomen. _If there was anyone who needed it, though, it's him… I've got enough of them already, anyway._ She smiled. The medal would be a good addition to his small collection of talent show and football trophies.

Her boyfriend, meanwhile, had removed the medal from its box and was moving it over his shirt, searching for the sweet spot that would force people to comment on it, yet be subtle enough that it appeared he wasn't trying to force people to comment on it. He eventually decided on a point on his right, just below his pecs.

Kim discreetly slipped the medal into her pocket.

A pause as the presentation glow diffused. Kim curled sideways in the recliner to get more comfortable, casually gripping her ankles. After drumming her fingers on the armrest, she glanced back up at Bush. "…How's the home front sitch coming, sir?"

She was almost sorry she'd asked. A contented, Alfred E. Neuman-esque smile slid off the President's face. He closed his eyes and ran his palm over his forehead. "What'd Simms tell y'all?" he asked sadly.

"Um, not much sir… Just mentioned some stuff about Britain…" Bush nodded along. "…The Iranian sitch, retaliatory strikes around the world, how our allies are kinda mad at us…said there was junk all over the internet..." The President shook his head wearily, eyes closed. "...And that things had been relatively quiet between 4/23 and news of Osama's death. He mentioned the U.S. a few times, but he said you'd fill us in."

"He mention that Rubicon thingy?"

"Wade gave us the download."

"Good... Not so good at those computer gizmos..." He rubbed his neck. "Anyway... we were tenser than a new rodeo clown facing down a 500-pound bucker named Betsy right after those suiciders. We were waiting to see which way the tide would turn... tides turning... see, it's easy to see a tide tur– oh, for heaven's sake, not again... OK, forget tides... So, point is, we were tense. I hoped that the Patriot Act Three – " he didn't notice Kim's split-second grimace " – would provide more security for Americans, but... News got out that Osama had been killed, and it's all perty much a one-shot guess as to who would have the projection power to do that... So we had a bunch of towel-heads mightly tweaked at us. Bombs started going off in other countries as the news went through the time zones... Culminated with Britain's thing around 3 PM. They'd had all that nitraters stocked up for something like that... So that was all over the newses, and a lot of people here saw it, and a lot of people decided to cash in on panic while panic was hot. " He closed his eyes and bowed his head before speaking to the floor. "We started getting car bombs around nine AM on the 27th... One or two sporadics in LA and Chicago and Miami. As you know, car bombs just aren't supposed to _happen_ here. Media went bonkers over it. The suiciders liked what they saw and did some more in Frisco and St. Louis and Houston... Tried to do DC and New York, but they couldn't get through the roadblocks and so they blew themselves up on the freeway. We finally realized what was hitting us, and called out the National Guard to set up defenses. The late stragglers saw the roadblocks, knew they couldn't get through, and drove off into some random neighborhood and blew up a U-Haul on some intersection of Maple and Clearwater...." Everyone's noses scrunched in an eye-closing grimace. "And then..."

"There's _more?_"

"You bet yer britches," said Bush sadly. "After that went all over the news, it was like this big ol' green flag to your random wacko. Come an' git it before this one-time opportunity expires, ya know? We had a wave of copycats popping up like pimples on a green-behind-ears cowpoke... Seemed like every oddball with a few old grenades and _Chemistry for Dummies_ decided to it was a good time to cash in on those insurance policies... And finally the Klan and the Aryan Nation and the rest of those Kool-Aid drinkers decided it would be a good time to get in on the act and settle a few grudges while they were at it... Thankfully, once everybody came out of the woodwork it was a lot easier to track up the dangling lines and pull in a massive string of arrests. Turned out a lot of the operations were just some burnt-out loser and his cousin, but the web of contacts and paper trails will help a lot... A whole lot... We're walking on eggshells at the moment, though. Allies have their own problems, everybody's simmering... More peed than NASCAR fans without a porta-potty... I'd hoped that taking out that bastard would help stabilized things, but....."

He trailed off and leaned against the window, staring blankly out at a surreal blanket of light, tangled, ice-crystal clouds beneath the jet's wings. "…Sometimes I wonder…" he sighed pensively at last, "... Sometimes..... Ah look out at all that's going on... Iraq on fire, you know... all that climate change stuff that's been going around – you know, my A/C bill was the highest Ah've ever seen it? Stuff in my own party… The deficit… And then Ah look at all I've wanted to do... bring democracy to Iraq, spread freedom 'round the world, help the entrepreneurs of America's businesses succeed in developing their stuff... And Ah I have to wonder... Ah have to wonder if Ah did it right....."

Bush lapsed into silence, gazing out the window. Then he gave himself a rough shake and sat up resolutely in his chair. "...But it's no good second-guessing yerself... No use fretting over the unknown unknowns... Ya can't cut and run... Gotta stay the course..."

Kim nodded along, but inside she crumpled slightly. _Darn... And he was so close that time..._

"....Sooo with everything going on, to be on the safe side," Bush finished, "The country's been under martial law since the 28th – "

Kim's head shot up. "Err, say what?"

"It's just temporary. Not much fun for anybody. Economy's in a holding pattern, stocks are down, the oil people are complaining to me because nobody's driving... So, again, it's just until we can get our bearings.... You can't believe the stuff we had to go through for your welcome party."

"...Welcome party?" Kim repeated uneasily.

"Just a little thing to get the nation's spirits up. We had to get more security than a farmer gives a self-milking cow."

"Erm, right, and on that note I think I'll just lean on the window again."

The President laughed and settled back into the warm hug of his recliner.

With a range of 7,800 miles, the behemoth 747 could scorch along at its maximum speed of 680 miles per hour, cutting the transatlantic flight time to five and a half hours. The F-16s trailing on the wingtips, however, only had a range of roughly 3,200 miles with drop-tanks, and around the Azores islands, they peeled off one at a time to join up with a KC-135 Stratotanker making the rounds.

* * *

After another hour of sleepy quiet, Kim had finally had enough. Her thoughts slid into her chest and stomach like lead filler. The memories weighed on her, putting a clamp on her usually bubbly self. She hated it. The bottled up presence of _it_ tingled faintly under her skin. It gnawed, persistent and gently unrelenting, smoldering in her brain.

She squirmed, intermeshing her fingers. Deciding to plunge into action before the momentum died, she took a deep, nerving breath and looked away from the window. Ron was sleeping again, snoring quietly. Rufus rested on top of the blond's chest, rising and falling several inches as his master breathed. Kim nudged her boyfriend on the shoulder. By the third nudge, Ron opened his eyes bemusedly, cricked his neck from side to side, and looked around at her. "Oh, hey, KP... S'up?"

"Ron… can I talk to you?"

"Um, sure… I mean, I haven't gone deaf in the last few minutes, have I?" He sat up in his chair, body relaxed and curious.

"I mean… like… in private?" She glanced over at the President. "No offense, sir."

"None taken, miss…" He grinned slightly. "Y'all teen stuff is fine with me."

Not sure if she'd just intercepted a double entendre, Kim looked expectantly back at Ron. He tilted his head quizzically to one side, searching her face intently. "Uhhh, okaaay…" He gathered tripod Rufus and placed him, still sleeping, on the headrest of the recliner.

"Thanks…" The redhead took his wrist and towed him toward the door.

"…Just make sure you don't leave a mess!" the President called after them, guffawing crudely.

Trailing Kim out of the room, Ron rolled his eyes and ignored it. They wandered out of the lounge room and down a carpeted hallway on the port side of the airplane. Passing a small kitchen, the corridor narrowed into a miscellaneous staff section, situated between the lounge and a conference room. The walls were gray here, unadorned, lined with storage compartments, interior access panels, and preparation areas.

Kim walked ahead of him, gnawing her lip preoccupiedly. Her eyes darted from wall to wall, reading door plaques. About halfway down, her face lit up and she stopped beside a narrow metal door.

"Uh, KP," said Ron uncertainly, glancing at her, "That's… a…."

"Yeah, I know," she said quickly, opening the door marked STAFF RESTROOM and bundling him in.

He blinked in the sudden dimness. From wall to wall, the room was roughly four feet long and five wide, plated entirely in brushed aluminum. An aluminum bench-like ledge ran along the left wall, cramping the compartment with its two-foot width. The plastic toilet seat sat in the center of the ledge. A tiny sink was located just inside the door on the right, overhung by a small, spotless mirror and lit by a single white fluorescent. Where the sink pedestal ended, a small cube of floor area between it and the airplane's skin allowed room for standing. Metal grab-rails ran along the wall. Inside the bare, uninsulated room, the squeaks, creaks, and groans of the jumbo's frame became much more noticeable.

Propelled inward, Ron slotted into the open floor cube and turned around. Slouching in the corner, he propped himself with a shoulder on each wall. With Bush's parting jibe still subconsciously swimming around his brain, reflexive primal growl reared in his gut as Kim shut the door tightly behind her.

_...Oh, shut up,_ a voice in his head snapped, seeing the troubled expression on Kim's face. The hormonal flare obediently died away.

His girlfriend sat down on the closed toilet seat, legs slightly splayed. She placed her arms across her thighs and gazed down at her hands, fidgetingly interlocking and unlocking her fingers.

Ron surreptitiously checked the date on his digital watch. _Well, it's not that time of the month again… So this can't be normal…_ He awkwardly cleared his throat. "Hey… Kim …err… KP? S-somethin' up?"

The redhead sighed, as if building up nerve.

"…Ron… when… when I was on the table…" Kim started abruptly, "…I… I… flatlined… didn't I?" she finished softly, staring fixedly at the floor.

"Yeeeaahhhh…" her boyfriend answered unevenly, uncertain about where this was going.

Kim gathered a breath in her cheeks and slowly puffed it out. "…So… so… Whenever that happened, I guess… That would mean… that would have to mean…" she glanced up at him, "W-what… I saw… was… a… a…" she trailed off, face working somewhat.

Ron's insides recoiled slightly. He chewed his tongue, carefully choosing his next words. "...A... a near-death experience...?"

She nodded faintly.

He exhaled heavily. Breaking eye contact, he looked up at the metal ceiling, biting his lip. Unconsciously, he crossed his arms over his chest and tilted farther into the corner. "So… what was it like?" he said, picking along, "Did you go up this long tunnel toward this real bright light, sidestepping the train as it came down? Give a thumbs-up to Saint Peter?" he said, slouching even more against the wall, crossing one leg over the other. His tone inexplicably became more and more sarcastic. "Did you see a chorus of angles playing their little harps with pretty halos and wings? Meet your grandfather? Shake hands with God, Jesus, and Rodney Dangerfield? Discover that evolution is something the Ol' Man in White made up to screw with our heads? That All Dogs go to Heaven? That 42 really is the number of everything? Learn that if you'd never been born, I'd be some bottom-rung pothead and Middleton would've been renamed Pottersville?!"

Echoing silence. The furious, accusatory tone of his voice reverberating in his ears, Ron blanched and snapped off like a radio.

_Ohhhh, no... no... no... That did. NOT. go down at all like I'd planned... Congrats, I just lost my girlfriend..._

"Oh….. man…." he murmured at last in a stunned, disbelieving voice, "I… I… jeeze… I… can't believe I just said that. KP… I just messed up big time... I-I'm really sorry… I-I don't know how I even said that… It just came out, and I got going, and I couldn't stop it, and... and…" He trailed off miserably, voice catching.

Overcoming an initial affronted shock, the girl remained silent during his vent, studying his body language. _He's not trying to be nasty…_ she finally realized, _He's… afraid. Going through what we just did, seeing me just go through what I did… The body has some sort shutdown about death, thinking about death, talking about death... He's just trying to voice it out… and it came out as bitterness and sarcasm. Not very pretty, but at least it's a start…_

She ended her thought-chain and smiled weakly at him. "It's no big, Ron… I know you're uncomfortable… If you'd rather talk about something else, I'm down with that…"

The reverse psychology worked.

His mouth fell open slightly, expression undecided. "No… no… I'm good," he said overbrightly, eager to atone for his outburst. Kim scooted over on the seat slightly and motioned for Ron to sit beside her. After a moment of hesitation, he broke away from the wall and sat down gingerly. They leaned against each other for support against the airplane's roll.

"Kim…" he repeated softly, "I-I'm sorry…. I…I didn't mean it like that…"

"So not the drama," she said quietly. "I'm sorry. Plunged into it too fast, didn't give you any warning. Nobody likes to think about death. 'Specially after what we've been through…" she shuddered. "…We think we're somehow invincible – as teenagers, you know – and that nothing can hurt us… Until a car crash kills your best friend. Or someone you know OD's... Or you get pelted at with bullets." Ron chuckled grimly. "We face our own mortality for perhaps the first time, and to tell you the truth, it scares us shitless!" They both laughed a little. Fear and apprehension began to thaw.

"...And to combat the fear..." she whispered, voice slowing, "You... need... to let the light shine in... you need.... someone to help bear the load... And to do that... you need... to open yourself.... to... someone... you trust... very, very deeply..."

A lengthy, heavy pause.

"So..." Ron said very gently, very quietly, "What... what.. was...?"

Kim opened her mouth, but discovered her throat plugged. She silently cupped her head in her hands, collecting her thoughts and resurfacing memories. Conflicted, she took a deep breath and blew it out slow stream, fluttering her lips in a gentle _plerrrrrbbpt._ Then she resolutely sat up beside him, shoulders thrown back, back ram-rodded, as if steeling herself for an extraction of poison. Staring straight ahead into space, she began speaking in a firm, clear voice. Her eyes glinted faintly under a fine mist.

"Wellll, to start off, it was sooo not what you were describing…" She smiled and then frowned, thinking hard. "…Nothing… nothing really happened at first. I can barely remember what happened right after I was hit… just a rush of color… and noise… and pain. Then everything went black. Absolute nothingness. Like standing in a darkroom with the lights off and huge earmuffs on and you can't feel the floor. Or anything else. No up, down, side, side, front, back…"

"You don't remember anything about the ride to the hospital?" murmured Ron, who had turned white, struggling to reprocess his own memories.

"Zip. Zero…. No sense of time or space at all. Just a pair of eyeballs that couldn't see anything anyway. Like walking in zero-viz fog. No direction or feeling beneath my feet. For all I know, I could have been blacked out for three minutes or three hours or three days or three years…" She stopped. Her voice was wavering. Ron leaned against her and put an arm gently around her shoulder. Gathering herself together under his touch, she continued in a faintly stuffy voice. "And then… then, real slowly – I think it was slowly; it was hard to tell – there was this sorta diffused greenish glow in the darkness, somewhere way out in front of me… I started moving toward it… Well, I can't exactly call it moving because I wasn't walking or even feeling like I was moving and didn't have any distance references but the light gradually got stronger as if I was coming closer to it…" She took a breath. "…And then r-really abruptly t-the glow suddenly s-sharpened, like I'd turned a corner…"

* * *

...Maturin glanced up at the heart monitor, worry etched across his brow. "V-fib!"

* * *

"…A-and all of a sudden I burst out of this fog……. I guess that's when I fla- fla-flatli-I-ned…" Her voice broke. "…Before me t-th-ER-re was this big, transparent wall of LCD clocks… or timers… and all their edges and numbers were lines of sharp green light." She propped her head on Ron's shoulder. "You know those projector clocks that shine an image up on a wall?"

Ron nodded.

"Yeah, but only this was just hanging there, unsupported, in the middle of this utter, space-black nowhere.… Glowing like neon tubes or something. Pristine pitch-blackness where I was… and through the numbers, pristine pitch-blackness on the other side. Remember Coach White's geometry class?"

The blond winced.

"Getting abstract here - Remember how he told us to think of a plane as a single slice of the universe that went on forever in all directions?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, KP! Math!"

She giggled. "Sorry… anyway… it was literally that. This wall, made up of all these perfectly aligned, square clocks like… like…" she struggled for at term, "Like a checkerboard, I guess… went up and down and left and right forever until they faded from view, still going. So I walked… or drifted… or whatever… closer to this thing, until I could see all the numbers and letters clearly –"

"Letters?"

"Yeah, I'll get to that in a sec…" she said quietly, on a roll.

_The darkness, when brought to the light, so becomes it…_

Ron hugged Kim tighter. The skin under his hand was cold. She was shivering.

"…But… but… then, after this certain point, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get any closer to it. The wall only seemed about ten feet away, close enough for me to put out my hand and touch it… But it was like I was walking on a treadmill." She stopped, gulping, as if preparing for a high-dive. "…Then… then… once I got close enough… I-I n-noticed what all the b-boxes we-ER-re…" Her voice cracked.

When she spoke again, her speech drifted between steady and thready. "...E-every last clock was a… timer. Every last one w-was counting… ba-ack-ward. For each one, there was this long, long line of zeros, separated every two by time dots, and right near the end, the numbers showed up, shown all the way back to what had to be… what… _millionths_ of a second… going so fast they blurred. It was… en-en-entrancing… I couldn't stop looking at it..." She took a breath. "Do you r-remember how I mentioned letters?"

"Uh-huh…?"

"'Cause I looked up from the numbers and discovered there was a small name… a… n-name… just above each clock. And above t-the timer r-I-ight in front of me, there w-was… my… m-my n-name, Ron…. Mine. K-kimberly Ann P-p-possible. And I realized t-that… that… I was looking at my….. my… _life clock_, Ron. …The t-time down to the damn millisecond until I d-die…." Kim choked, hot tears beginning to slide from the corners of her eyes. She buried her face into Ron's shoulder. "Ah-ah-I looked to my left, and right beside m-my clock was… y-your name… and then Mom and Dad's names… and then Barkin and Dr. Director and Josh and Drakken and Shego and Bortel andandandandanndnnn…!" She snerted back a running nose. "I backed up slightly, and found that constantly up, down, and around, clocks were being randomly sucked out of view, and in other spots they were welling up, sprouting between two timers. When one of the things… v-vanished, the counter would hit all zeros for a fraction of a second before closing in on itself, like a TV turning off. While it did that, a glowing white patch would show up in the square as it was sucked inward… or backward… before the other counters around it reshuffled and perfectly filled its spot."

Ron was blinking rapidly, a burning at the edge of his eyes.

"I…i…it was n-nuts, like there was some…some… whole Narnia wardrobe vibe going on."

She chuckled faintly, a weak smile playing over her lips. Ron nodded and simply caressed her hair.

"I d-don't know how long it w-was until I realized this – again, t-there wasn't any sense of time – b-but all the boxes had these thin, glowing green lines going to the clocks immediately next to them… When I looked closer, some of the lines looked stronger and brighter than others… There were real thick, bright lines between my mom and dad and…" she suddenly choked short, "…Y-you… and… me… The more I studied it, I realized that all these clocks weren't random… They were placed together in groupings of… interaction, and contact… From just me, there were lines leading directly to you and my parents and the tweebs and thinner, indirect ones to every single one of my rides and Dr. Director and Simms and Bush and Drakken and Shego and Dementor… Everybody… everybody… linked. We were all interconnected to somebody else. Like, I know some people who then knew some people who then knew some people who then knew some people who then knew some people…" Now she looked awestruck and a little dizzy. "I hung around there for what seemed a few minutes or an hour…"

* * *

…The histrionic ECG fell into one long, loud, flat unbroken scream.

"Shit!" Maturin yelled.

"Jolt her again, sir?" asked the defib nurse quickly.

"Not recommended… Heart's already depolarized. CPR!"

Anticipating this, another unscrubbed nurse was already in motion. She grabbed a short blue backboard from a wall rack. The board had a thick cuff-like component on the middle and simple electronic controls in a corner.

The contraption was an AutoPulse, a mechanized cardiorespiratory device. In operation, the cuff inflates around the patient like a blood pressure gauge and rhythmically constricts the entire rib cage. This causes much less damage than manual CPR, which puts pressure directly on the sternum and ribs. An onboard computer maintains precise pulse timing, and as a result, the machine circulates four times as much blood and oxygen around a patient compared to manual CPR. In fact, the AutoPulse sends twenty-five percent more oxygen to the brain and tissues than normal breathing.

Maturin and the other sterile doctors stepped away as nurses moved in. Taking extreme care to keep her abdomen immobile, they snaked the machine under the life support lines and passed it under her back. Wrapping the cuff over the defibrillator pads and around her chest, one punched the start button. Instantly the cuff began tightening and relaxing, squeezing her heart at an optimum eighty beats a minute.

This continued for three minutes.

"All right…" said Maturin, breathing very deliberately, "Let's try shocking her again."

"Amp of epi in and flowing!"

"Right, charge to 400 joules. This might be our last shot."

A technician switched off the AutoPulse and backed away as the defib nurse yelled, "CLEAR!"

_Baaaachhherrrka!_

The girl's body writhed, back arching. The electric charge snapped her eyelids open, revealing her eyes, clouded, blank, and unfocused.

As the surge died, the lids fell shut. Her frame slumped.

The tinny ECG scream snapped short, chirruped, and then the heart monitor began producing a succession of steady, rhythmic beeps.

All present let out a collective exhale. Maturin wiped his sweating brow with his upper sleeve, keeping his gloves clean. "Good… God…" He paused. "Vitals?"

"…Heart 156; BP is 68 over 35 and rising. Respirations on the vent 16 and rising…. BP now 70 over 40 and leveling," rattled off the anesthetist. "I think we've got her back, sir."

The surgeon smiled wanly. "All… right… I think we may continue…. Keep the AutoPulse on her, though." He looked at the other doctors. "Ready?"

They nodded.

"OK, let's go. …Scalpel."

* * *

"…And… and then…" Kim continued, "there w-was this…this… voice…"

"…Whose?"

"…Mine," she said, taking a long, steadying breath, eyes scrunching, "I mean, it sounded like mine…. But…. At the same time… it… wasn't mine… It was all around me, f-for one, and de-deeper… a-and had a…. a… a…" Lost for words, her face contorted, working with emotion, "…K-kind of p-power t-to it, s-s-s-omething I'd never f-felt b-before… I can't r-really ex-pl-plain it…. Like a b-bass sp-peaker, only a lot, lot, lot stronger… M-my knees would have g-given out, if I'd had any… A-and it said gently, "…It will come. But now is not your time."  
As He… she… it… me…? said it, t-this h-hot beam of i-incredible energy shot down through the t-top of my head – I think it was the top of my head; I couldn't see it – and drilled straight through what I g-guess was my body into my heart."

Ron looked awed. "Do… do… do… you think that was….?"

"I-I-I sup-sup-suppose," she said raggedly.

"….Wow…"

"Y-yeah…" She hiccupped. "Right a-after that, t-the whole clock t-thingy slowly d-drifted away and v-vanished, and I just f-floated around in the dark… I-I d-don't know how long… Until I finally woke up in that hos-hospital bed..."

She trailed off into despondent silence and nestled into Ron's neck beneath his chin, tears tracking soundlessly down her face. The young man leaned into her head, using it slightly like a pillow, and held her tight around her waist.

"Sorry if I've sitched this wrong," Ron said at last, "…I… I…I'm not so good with the whole emotion thing… I've got the tact of a spork… But… do you remember what any of the timers said?"

"…You're doing fine with the whole emotion thing…" Kim said softly, nuzzling closer. She bit her lip, thinking hard. "Well… when I was there… All the numbers were really, really sharp… Better than any HDTV I've ever seen… But now, when I think back… I can't remember any of the readings. Everything else is still clear, but the numbers themselves…" She paused, recollecting. "I… I… can see shapes… but they're all blurry. Like the fog they put over license plates on those police chase videos. It… it… it's almost like they've been blocked out on purpose…"

"W-would… would… you have liked to have remembered them?"

Another long pause. Kim tensed, staring off into space. "….No," she sighed at last, rotating her head in the hollow of Ron's neck to look up at him, "If I may wax brain-pain poetic for a moment… I'm sorta glad I don't. If… If… I had… I probably would've spent the rest of my life wondering just how much time I had left, beating myself up for not remembering the date better… Gone through the world paranoid, freaking out over what it was that will eventually do me in… So… in a way… I'm glad. We're all gonna kick the bucket eventually, so… I've gotta live the best life I can every day I can… And when my timer finally runs down… well… I'll take it when it comes… and hope I go down fighting." Through her tear-lined face broke out a surprisingly strong smile.

Then, after a moment, it faded. Her expression crumpled. "But… oh, God, Ron… I… I…I don't wanna die…" she whispered shakily, burying her head into Ron's neck again, lips against his throat.

Ron bent his head slightly, resting his nose onto her forehead, trying not to break down himself. Then, having no idea what he was doing but somehow sensing it was the right thing to do, he carefully shifted his mouth and tried to link his lips with hers. Kim, feeling it, twisted away slightly, ducking her head down. Very gently, he placed a finger under her chin and lifted her head up. She went with it, green eyes connecting with hazel.

"No… wait…" he breathed haltingly, speaking the first words that came to his mouth, still having no idea what he was doing but with something deep inside telling him to keep going, "I-It… might be…… It's… healing…."

She nodded imperceptibly and didn't resist when he gently melded his lips into hers. He didn't push or mouth; no tongue. Contact. All it was, all that it needed to be. Contact.

Kim warmed up to it, pushing back with her own kiss. She wrapped her arms around his back in a hug. Nothing sensual; that could wait. Golden warmth flowed away from her lips and through her body, infusing her brain with a sense of peace and security. Currents of power shuttled back and forth between their bodies. Cleansing. Purifying. Stabilizing. Equalizing.

The restroom door clicked open slightly and a splinter of light shot into the room.

"Wha…?" whispered the rather confused sliver of Secret Service agent visible through the gap.

Ron, facing the door, cracked an eye open. The thread of light illuminated a small section of his face. Seeing the guard, he gently lifted his index finger, arms still wrapped around Kim's back. _Give us a minute._

The agent understood, nodding, and silently closed the door with a knowing grin.

After another minute or so, they reached a mutual stopping point and reluctantly broke apart.

"Thanks…" Kim said softly, grinning shyly and blushing, "…Y-you were right… I… I… needed that…"

Ron nodded absentmindedly, looking as though he'd swallowed a large handful of Spark Rocks. "Kim…?"

"Hmmmmmmm?"

"Are… are… you sure you aren't still carrying some of that electricity with you?"

She burst out laughing. "So not…!" Playfully, she jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow. "Take a shower, Brainswitch Boy!"

"Ha, hahaha, ha…! ow…"

Leaning over, Kim rubbed shoulders with him. "Mmmmmm… I'd forgotten you were good at that… Give me one of _those_ for Christmas… I'd like it better than some old Bueno Bucks…"

"Ah, haha, ha, ha, haeeerrrr…" He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, mentally crossing this year's gift off the list. "Uh, KP… maybe we should, er, ix-nay on the exy-say…?"

Kim laughed again. "Oh, all right…" She stood and opened the door, letting in a flood of blinding light. She turned to him. "So…Wanna see if the Kimmunicator can jack into Air Force One's wi-fi?"

Ron jumped up, grinning. "Right behind you," he said, and he followed her back to the lounge.

* * *

_…So a day when you've lost yourself completely,  
Could be a night when your life ends;  
Such a heart that will lead you to deceiving;  
All the pain held in your  
Hands _

_Are shaking cold...  
Your hands are mine to hold..._

_Speak to me! _

_When all you've got to keep is strong,  
Move along, move along, like I know ya do!_

_And even when your hope is gone,  
Move along, move along,  
Just to make it through!  
Move along, move along,  
Just to make it through!  
_

_So when all you've got to keep is strong,  
Move along, move along like I know ya do!  
And even when your hope is gone,  
Move along, move along, just to make it through......!  
_

"Move Along"

- The All-American Rejects

* * *

Over the remainder of the flight, the Secret Service agent standing watch just outside the conference room noticed the redhead seemed a lot more chatty and animated than when she had stepped onboard. Joking, laughing with the Commander in Chief, much more the Type-A he'd read about in briefings. It was as if she had released a weight she'd been carrying... She wore the loose, easy grin of a challenge overcome.

At least, the guard noted, it made for a more enjoyable flight.

* * *

May 1st, 2007  
Washington, D.C. airspace  
Boeing VC-25A, callsign "Air Force One"  
11:32 AM Eastern Standard Time

The thud of rubber meeting tarmac was barely felt inside the spacious cabin as the pilot expertly settled Air Force One onto the main runway at Andrews Air Force Base. Heavy tompion-like shields plugged the windows as an added precaution against a rocket attack. The heavy covers created an enclosed, soundproof bubble from the outside world. Kim stood and stretched, wincing slightly as the stitches pulled.

They were, she reflected, right back where the adventure had started.

Ron yawned and gave his back a crack. The redhead helped Ron pull his backpack straps over his wounded shoulder before slinging on her own. As her boyfriend gathered his boxes and Rufus, Kim turned to the President.

"Thanks for the ride, sir," she said with a smile, shaking his offered hand.

"It's not much, not much," he replied. "The least I could do is give you a nice ride home after all you've done."

"Awww, it was no bi–" She stopped, considering. "OK, so it was pretty big, but..."

"Any time you need a ride from us, call me... I'll see if I can work something out."

"Please-and-thank-you," she said, beaming.

A small, cryptic smile flashed across Bush's face. "Don't give me all your big thanks just yet..." he said as a Secret Service agent began to open the outside hatch.

Inured by the thick, soundproof armor in the airplane's skin, Kim was unprepared for the wall of sound that greeted her as she stepped over the threshold and onto a movable stairway. She stopped dead in the hatch, Ron bonking into her from behind. Wriggling sideways, he looked past her neck. His "whoa..." three inches from Kim's ear was lost.

Held back from the tarmac by a thick line of MPs was a massive crowd, ten thousand strong or more. Media trucks clustered around open spaces on the runway below, jockeying for position as they frenzily deployed transmission masts from the roofs of their vans. Collapsible dishes bloomed like so many flowers, speeding live feeds back to their editors. In front of the crowd, they had erected massive projector screens so the live public could see what was going on.

Kim stepped onto a movable stairway before her and stared speechless, inert, across the sea of people. Many of them carried homemade posters and banners. Over the blast of humanity and noise, she realized they were all cheering. Cheering for _her_.

On the edges, she could see dark shapes of M2 Bradley fighting vehicles sticking above the heads of the crowd. Despite the celebratory atmosphere, she detected hundreds of soldiers and SWAT scattered throughout the crowd. Several F-22 Raptors circled lazily overhead, the sound of their engines just out of reach.

Two dozen invisible infrared dots snapped onto the teen's bodies from rooftops a mile away, probing them, examining them, before drifting off to scan the crowd again.

As she watched, Kim felt her mouth drop open.

Bush clapped a hand on their shoulders and stuck his face between them. "Perdy cool, huh? The boys in the back room started working on this right after you came out of surgery... I heard the security detail and crowd permits were a nightmare..." Standing straight, he gave a wave to the press for an obligatory barrage of flashbulbs before gently nudging the teens to the forefront. Kim took a deep, tight breath as she took a tentative step forward. The eyes of the entire crowd swiveled toward them. Network cameras, with their bright lights and Botoxed announcers, twinkled up at her from the foot of the three-story staircase.

As recording lights blazed to life and live feeds rolled, a low gasp emanated from the masses behind the network trucks. A murmuring quiet flowed backward like a ripple, a wave. It hit the edge of the crowd and kept going, across time and space into hundreds of thousands of television sets across the nation and around the globe, deepening as it went. Kim looked up at one of the massive flat-panel displays to see herself reflected in pixels.

She gripped the railing harder as she saw what the rest of the world was already seeing – Kim Possible, one of the world's best combatants, "She Can Do Anything" Possible, virtually-bulletproof Kim Possible, in pain, stomach bound up with bandages, cuts over her face and arms, a cuff of gauze around her leg. On the telescreen, she saw Bush and Ron trading frightened looks behind her back.

Fired on by Ron's expression of panic, she wobbled forward to the first stair, spine and legs now suddenly tinged with weakness, soreness. Frightened by her own beat-up image, she closed her eyes lightly as she gently put her foot down on the first stair, willing to her core that she wasn't going to trip and fall and look like an idiot.

Of course, as she brought her other foot forward onto the next stair, it snagged on a fold in her cargos. It lurched her other leg forward. In slow motion, she knew she was off balance. She knew she was falling. _Forward. Falling forward. Forward falling._ She flung her left hand toward the railing and caught herself, half-sprawling, clutching the banister.

A low murmur; a low, uneasy, frightened buzz rifled through the throng.

Hanging on the railing, Kim glanced at the viewscreens and saw her own surprised, desperate face shot back at her.

Dead, awed silence. The crowd, 10,000 strong, packed around the landing strip - not a word. Even the seagulls erupting from the nearby Potomac were muted.

_Ohhhhhh, no, no, nononononononono...! Think fast, Possible, think fast...!_

Strength abruptly returned to her muscles. She tensed her legs and powered off the railing, standing tall in defiance of shame, the act brushing away reporters coming up the steps to help her. Recovering poise in one fluid motion, she pumped her fist into the air as a scream erupted from her throat,

"Boooooyaaaaaaahhhhhhh!"

The crowd instantly went nuts, back on its feet, punching the air, its roar shuddering across the entire airfield. From the front and rushing back like a tidal wave came one unified, ecstatic chant:

_Kim! Kim! Kim! Kim!_

As the crowd cheered, she carefully descended the staircase. Ron caught up with her, face dead white, and helped her complete the rest of the way. He leaned into the girl's ear. "Nice save there, K.P..." He nuzzled her ear. "...But I'll have you know, that was my line…" he said with a light smile.

They had reached the bottom. Kim turned and put an arm around his neck. "OK, Casano-duh...Would a kiss help make up for it...?" she said slyly.

"Yeah... but – but there's all these –" His protests were cut short as Kim planted him one right on the lips. An "Awwwwww...!" and a chorus of giggles surged through the people watching on the viewscreens.

President Bush jogged up behind them, flanked by Secret Service. "OK, OK, you guys, break it up," he said, running his hand between their melted-together faces. His hand returned rather slobbery, but with mission accomplished. Both teens turned to him, Ron blissfully spaced out. "...I managed to get a little pork job done that I don't think the voters will mind too much... I think you might actually get a kick out of it." He put a hand on Kim's shoulder and rotated her to face in the same direction he was.

Kim watched in disbelief as a bubble of MPDC peeled back to reveal her Subaru, and in front of it –

Her family, cheering like the best of them.

"_Mom?!_"

She disengaged from Ron and dashed over to her mother, her wounds momentarily forgotten. Mrs. Anne Possible embraced her daughter in a deep, crushing hug. "Oh, Kimmie!" She held her progeny for a moment, speechless. "...I-I'd seen stuff on the news, and then that call from the hospital... Oh, God, Kimmie, I'm so glad to see you _home!_" She hugged her again before holding Kim at arm's length to better look at her, hands on Kim's shoulders. "..._Man_, that sounded corny, didnnit?" she said, smiling ear-to-ear.

Kim grinned. "It's almost like made for Disney, Mom..." They both burst out laughing. "But, hey, so not the drama. I'm glad to be back!"

The rest of the family joined them in a group hug, Mr. Dr. Possible still looking a bit hawkish after seeing Ronald trade saliva with his Kimmie-Cub. When Ron wandered over to join the festivities, however, James swallowed his indignation.

Finally, Kim had had enough. "Okay, okay, you guys!" she said playfully as she wriggled out of the pile, "I've got more stitches in my gut than I'd really like to count right now!"

The hug disintegrated and the Tweebs scampered off to intercept the luggage being dragged over by a Secret Service agent. Mrs. Possible handed Kim a new Kimmunicator, which she slipped into its usual pocket.

Mr. Dr. Possible hugged his daughter individually and then lovingly looked her over. "It looks like your mother has her work cut out for her, Kimmie-Cub..." he said gently.

"Don't worry, Dad... I got a lot of info from the doctors."

"Ooooh, it'll be just like med school!" said Mrs. Possible enthusiastically. "And now I'll even have my own nurse to help me!" She yanked her husband by the tie.

"Uhhh, that's not quite what I – "

"Oh, hush.... besides, there'll beeee surgical draaaaaape..." She looked coyly at her spouse.

"Hmmm, well, you know..." James said, backpedaling rapidly, "With all this excitement, I'm feeling a little flushed... You, mmmm, may have to take my temperature later..."

Thankfully, further parental gorchyness halted as the President strolled up. "Miss Possible?"

She turned around. "Yessir?"

"I just once again wanna thank you for your commitment to this country... Your sacrifice has truly made the world a better place." He raised his fingers to a salute.

Standing as rigidly as she could, Kim crisply returned the salute. Behind her, the Tweebs dived through her luggage.

"God bless y'all," said Bush, and he was led by the Service to a large black limousine parked beside Air Force One's nose wheel.

"...Hey, Kim..." said Jim with barely-contained brotherly glee, bringing forward a square, aluminum-clad briefcase, his face half-hidden by the raised lid.

Tim looked into the box with sarcastic eyebrows. "...Are you…"

"…Like,"

"On heroin,"

"Or something?" Jim turned the case to expose a line of syringes and accompanying injection fluid half-buried in eggcrate foam.

"Give me thaaaaaat!" Kim snapped, yanking the hypodermics away from her brothers and huffily slamming the lid shut. "Tweebs!"

Carnage was prevented by the quick action of Mrs. Possible. "Hey, Kim, I'm not sure how your stomach is feeling, but.... if you're hungry for lunch... I've been up in this area on medical conferences... and I know there's this really cool hotdog place nearby that does some pretty weird custom orders, including..." she smiled, "...Marshmallows."

Kim again wrapped her mother in a hug. "You're _awesome_, Mom!"

A few good-natured hecklers voiced out from the nearby crowd.

"Hey, you guys, get outta here!"

"Yeah, you people are making me hungry!"

The redheads laughed. "Whatever they say, Mom... Help me get this stuff in the trunk?"

As the last bag, Ron's backpack, was loaded, the Kimmunicator rang in Kim's pocket, the tone barely heard over the all the people. She pulled it out and paused for a moment before pressing the ON/OFF button. Wade's face flickered onto the screen. "What's the sitch, Wade?" she said apprehensively, remembering she had done the exact same thing at the beginning of the whole ordeal.

"Hey, Kim, sorry to break anything up, but I'm getting a report from your area of a cat stuck in a tree..." He broke off, looking embarrassed. "Oh, right, sorry... Forgot for a moment there... my bad..."

"Wade... Give me the coordinates."

"But, Kim, you're not supposed to – "

"All I'm asking for are the coordinates," she said innocently.

Wade hesitated for a moment, then flashed a map on the screen, the incident highlighted as a pulsating yellow dot.

Her mother peered over her shoulder. "Hey... You know, that's on the way to the restaurant..."

"Cool!"

Wade's face popped back onscreen. "Kiiim, Maturin said no world saving for – "

"I _know_ what the doc said, Wade... I'll just stand at the bottom and catch it," she said sweetly. "...Besides, the Tweebs have this tractor-beam thingy they've been dying to try out..."

Jim and Tim grinned at each other and high-fived.

Wade finally gave in, flashing up a driving route Mapquest-style.

"OK, guys, let's roll!" Kim shouted as everyone clambered into the car. Around them, the crowd roared as it opened a space for the Outback. Mr. Possible gunned the engine and carefully eased across the tarmac. Tumultuous cheers followed the car like tentacles as it drove between the gates of Andrews Air Force Base and out into the green outskirts beyond.

May 1st, 2007  
Washington, D.C.  
Andrews Air Force Base  
11:41 AM

_Back off, I'll take you on  
Headstrong to take on anyone!  
I know that you are wrong;  
Headstrong, we're headstrong!  
Back off, I'll take you on  
Headstrong to take on anyone!  
I know that you are wrong  
And this world is not where you belong..._

_I see your fantasy  
You want to make it a reality;  
Well, now that's over!  
I see your motives inside...  
Your decision to hide..._

_Yaaaaahhhhhhh!_

_Back off, I'll take you on!  
Headstrong to take on anyone!  
I know that you are wrong  
Headstrong, we're headstrong!  
Back off, I'll take you on;  
Headstrong...  
Yeah, headstrong...  
Enough to take on anyone..._

"Headstong"

- Trapt

_

* * *

_

May 1st, 2007  
A little private island in the Caribbean  
11:31 AM EST

Soft light pulsated off objects in the cavernous room from the glow of a big-screen television. The rest of the space faded into dusky twilight... With the activities here, electricity was at a premium and the budget was tight. The harsh glare ebbed and flowed upon two pieces of furniture planted in front of the massive LCD display, a beat-up old couch and a recliner wrapped in Italian leather. Onscreen, a reporter droned. Red light flared into the darkness as the network's logo scrawled along the bottom of the newscast.

The reporter suddenly tapped at a mike jammed in his ear and snapped out of his lethargic filler. The camera shifted to a view down a long runway, searching for something descending out of the clouds. A huge crowd was visible on the edges of the screen.

Intrigued, a hand reached from the depths of the couch and fumbled with the teensy buttons on a massive remote. Finally, it found the volume control.

The finger that mashed down on the phosphorescent "+" button was a delicate shade of blue.

"Well, she's got spunk, that one," Dr. Drew Lipsky growled as he watched Air Force One hit the runway, smoke erupting from the tires at impact. "I'll give her that."

The broadcast switched back to the announcer. ".... – Possible, allegedly part of the effort to bring notorious terrorist Osama bin Laden to justice...."

"Oooo," said Drakken derisively, "The girl who thinks she's all that, bringing down a big patootie. You might want to watch your back from now on, Sheg –"

A thick fashion magazine thwacked him upside the head. He snapped his head sideways to see Shego innocently studying her nails with the composure and complacency of a panther. She lounged impudently in the expensive recliner, legs crossed and dangling casually over the armrest in a way that would make most teenage boys salivate. In the dim glow, a ragged line of whiter-than-white scar tissue was clearly visible, running just beside her left eye and down her cheek. With her millions, she could have gotten it more-or-less eliminated, but she kept the only mar to her beauty, given to her on the night of a high school prom... She'd kept it... She wanted to remember...

"...What?" she said, voice dripping sarcasm. Shego looked up to see Drakken glaring at her, rubbing his temple irritably. Glancing at the broadcast, she rolled her eyes disdainfully. "Princess...? Pa-leeeze... I don't watch my back for anybody.... Least of all that red-haired goodie-two-shoes..."

"Come now, Shego," Drakken said, blundering into dangerous territory, "There's been at least a couple of times she's handed your ass to y –"

A glass of water on the coffee table between the two chairs exploded. Sizzling flares of blue and green mixed together in a rush before vanishing. Drakken cowered beneath the couch's armrest, holding a pillow over his head. When he tentatively peaked above the stuffing, Shego was nonchalantly running a file over her gloves, collected as a 1-800 number. Only a smoking char remained on the glass tabletop.

"Never say that again," she said calmly, without looking up, as Drakken disentangled himself from the comforter. The doctor flinched, but Shego merely continued to sharpen her claws.

She needed a special material for the edges. Normal metals, even titanium, were unfit for the purpose. The incredible heat of her plasma warped most within a few lights, and the cycles of instantaneous hot and cold quickly created unacceptable metal fatigue. In addition, a chemical contained within her power caused small pits to form in the metal; when combined with the fatigue, her claws often snapped off at the base. Plastics were utterly useless except for a yucky napalm goo. She finally found a solution in a synthetic ceramic, which she grudging owed props to her employer for its creation. Being of earth, it was somehow resistant to the corrosive effect of her glow. Drakken had interlaced it with thousands of carbon microtubules, which dissipated the heat rapidly and prevented the ceramic from cracking. When ensheathed in a protective film of plasma, it could slice like butter through substances that stopped ordinary ceramics cold. They were even inherently antimicrobial, so she could slice through skin without worrying about contaminating herself (this also meant that she didn't transfer any infectious diseases into her victims, but she cared less about that benefit). Still, the material was not without its downsides. While immersed in plasma, the keen edges would ablate like tiles on the space shuttle, requiring periodic filing along with replacement every two or three years. She also ran the risk of chipping the claws if she contacted flesh. For some reason, the plasma had little effect on living tissue; she guessed it had something to do with water content.

Drakken turned back to the live broadcast, watching with narrowed eyes. The camera focus zoomed in as Air Force One's hatch opened; his nemesis stepped onto the stairs. His face twisted into a quiet snarl. She tripped. She nearly fell. The scar on his face bobbled on the edge of a nasty sneer. Then, in an uncharacteristic flurry of attention, he noticed there was something... odd about the girl. Something extra. He dived for the cumbersome remote and jammed the pause button.

* * *

Shego had cajoled him into unwillingly getting one of those TiVo things. Within 36 hours, it had repaid itself several times over. He couldn't believe how he'd properly watched TV without it.

Unfortunately, Shego was now pushing for a new-fangled DVD "recorder" and something called a Slingbox. Walk before you run, Drakken had told her. His Betamax had worked fine for the past fifteen years, hadn't it?

* * *

He shifted his thumb and hit "remind." The live broadcast reversed itself frame by frame until Drakken stopped on a freeze frame with Kim's fist punched into the air. He zoomed in on the picture and squinted at her waist. Then his eyes popped wide and the remote fell to the floor with a clatter, battery cover skittering away on the tile.

"She-Shego!" he yelped, mouth dry. "Shego! SHEGO!"

The vixen took a deep, steadying breath and then looked up from her filing, annoyed. "What _now_, Dr. D?"

Drakken pointed wildly toward the screen. "She's got a gun, Shego! Kim Possible's got a gun! Okay, okay... so maybe she is almost all that! .....Ohhhhhhh, no, she's gonna come after us! We are sooo dead meat! We're all doomed! Doomed! Doomed, Shego! ... Shego! ... Shego, are you even listening to me? Err... Shego...?"

Without a glance at Drakken, Shego stood, the iron file sliding from her stomach and clanging unnoticed to the ground. She stared silently, as if hypnotized, at the image of Kim pasted across the screen, her fists lightly clenched. Her eyes zeroed on the sliver of Sigma 40 protruding from the holster on the teen's hip. Intense concentration stamped across her face, fixating her almond-shaped eyes and hardening her mouth into a thin line. Then, inexplicably, her features softened. She smiled like a knife.

Wordlessly, she reached down her body, tracing over the black-and-green outfit. Arriving at the pouch on her calf, she indifferently popped the snap and slid her hand inside. When it withdrew, it carried a Steyr TMP machine pistol.

Ignoring Drakken's dumbfounded, thunderstruck expression, she slowly, almost sensuously, pulled herself upright. She held the weapon in her right hand by the rear handgrip and casually let the gun tilt back so the barrel aimed toward the ceiling.

As she stared at the screen, plasma emulsified up her wrist and lightly curved fingers, flaring into the air above her hand in a swirling column of viridian. Facets of the weapon caught the otherworldly light and gleamed like emeralds in coal. The glow flickered and writhed across her face like the glare of some sick campfire.

As the pause period on the screen ended, the video feed began moving again. Shego watched as Kim stood, defiant against her fall. A slow, approving, determined grin spread across Shego's face.

"Perfect......."

**END.**


	15. Glossary for Chapter 13

Glossary for Chapter 13 

I compiled this glossary with the help of Jeriddian, a doctor of Internal Medicine and the administrator/founder of the Global Justice Alliance webpage and forum. Previously, Dr. Jeriddian helped me edit and improve Chapter 13, which began as a load of medical clichés and wound up as a realistic ER drama.

* * *

In order of appearance:

**IED**: Improvised Explosive Device

**Lap**: short for "Laparotomy," a surgical procedure involving an incision through the abdominal wall to gain access into the abdominal cavity.

**Blood pressure (BP):** 120 over 80 is ideal. Anything below 90/60 or above 160/100 is cause for concern; coma and death can occur below 50/30. The first number is always higher and indicates systolic pressure – the heart is contracting and driving blood through the arteries. The second indicates diastolic pressure – the heart is relaxing and filling with blood for the next contraction.

**Heart rate:** Normal heart rate is usually between 60 and 100 beats for minute for above 100 bpm indicates sinus tachycardia (sinus tach), or an abnormally fast heart rate.

**Intubation: **placement of a flexible plastic tube into the throat to protect the patient's airway (trachea) and provide a means of mechanical ventilation. The endotracheal tube (ET tube) has an inflatable balloon around the lower part which inflates after the tube is placed in the trachea, creating an airtight seal to allow the ventilator to force air into the lungs as needed.

**Pneumo:** short for pneumothorax, or a collapsed lung. The lung is punctured or otherwise looses pressure from leaking air. Patients can die unless the leak is fixed and pressure from air leaked into the chest cavity is removed, allowing the lung to expand normally. This often requires a chest tube, inserted through the chest wall to remove leaked air and help re-expand the lung.

**Ambu bag:** a hand-held device used to provide mechanical breathing. It is fitted to a mask which covers the patient's nose and mouth and creates an air tight seal against the face. A hollow squeeze-ball forces air through the mask into the patient's lungs, then allows the patient to "exhale" as the ball is released and fills up with air. An oxygen line is usually connected to the ambou bag to supply extra oxygen to the patient.

**Epigastrium****:** the upper central region of the abdomen; forms a triangle beneath the chest, and is located slightly below the xiphoid process (bottom of the sternum).

**Betadine:** a topical antiseptic used to prep the skin of surgical patients about to undergo surgery. Patients allergic to betadine are prepped with alcohol.

**Morphine:** a powerful pain killing opiate derived from the poppy plant. Doses used can vary from patient to patient in regards to individual pain tolerance and the source of the pain. 10 mg (milligrams) is a fairly large dose in most cases.

**Midazolam:** a powerful sedative/muscle relaxant. While in the same class as Valium and ativan, the drug's primary use is in conscious sedation and preparation for general endotracheal anesthesia. Its main effect is forgetfulness; patients given this drug do not remember anything afterward while under its effect.

**Succinylcholine:** widely used drug to induce muscle relaxation during general anesthesia, initially to make intubation possible by eliminating the gag reflex. In addition, it is usually required during surgery to stop involuntary muscle spasms resulting from incisions and manipulation of the tissues.

**Ophthalmologist:** eye specialist and/or eye surgeon

**O negative blood:** "universal" blood, without any antigens, that can be given to any blood type. Any time a blood transfusion is ordered, the blood must usually be "typed and crossed" to match the donor blood type to the recipient to prevent very severe reactions that can be fatal. In emergencies, where one does not have time for that, "universal" O-negative donor blood is used, as it is not required to be put through this process.

Blood is usually given as "units," each about 150 to 200 cc (about 7 fluid ounces) which, when rehydrated with saline, approximate 500 cc (about a pint) of whole blood.

**Ringers: **short for "Lactated Ringer's solution," Ringers is a solution that is isotonic with (or has the same concentration of solutes as) blood and is intended for intravenous administration. Lactated Ringer's solution is abbreviated as "LR" or "RL."

**Subclavian:** the subclavian artery and vein are located underneath the clavicles (collarbones) to either side of the upper chest. The subclavian arteries come out of the aortic arch and connect to the brachial arteries on both sides. The subclavian veins connect at the junction of the cephalic and basilic veins (which drain the arms), and also connect to other veins in the chest, which then connect to the superior vena cava. The subclavian vein is a frequent site for the insertion of a "central venous line," an IV line for drugs and other fluids that should not be given through veins in the limbs.

**Short gut syndrome:** a condition where there is not enough small intestine to properly absorb nutrients form the digestive tract and supply nutrition for the body. Of all the parts of the gastrointestinal (GI) tract, the small intestine is the one part without which people cannot live. Causes for the loss of small intestine are varied, but the most common are trauma, bowel infarction (tissue that dies from loss of blood supply), and Crohn's disease. These conditions usually required surgical removal of the dead portions of the intestine. People usually have 20 feet of small intestine, and they experience short gut syndrome when they are left with approximately 2 to 3 feet or less. Chronic digestion problems and constant diarrhea ensue, complicated by dehydration, electrolyte disorders, and malnutrition. Patients can be treated with IV nutrient solutions, but life expectancy is short.

**Aorta (abdominal):** largest artery in the abdominal cavity. It runs down the back of the abdomen, just in front of the spine, and behind the stomach, kidneys, and small intestine to the iliac and femoral arteries. Puncture = bad.

**Celiac artery:** first major branch of the abdominal aorta; feeds the liver, stomach, and spleen.

**Exsanguinate:** to bleed to death

**Lidocaine: **a common local anesthetic; usually injected by syringe to numb an area in preparation for a minor surgical procedure. Also used for cardiac arrhythmias, usually in code situations only, as it can cause as much cardiac arrhythmia as it can cure. It is therefore not a first-line drug for this use and has now been restricted to use as a second or third line anti-arrhythmic agent in Code Blue situations; if this drug is required, you've got a problem.

**Anesthesiologist: **sometimes nicknamed a "gas passer", this doctor is specifically trained to administer anesthesia and manage the medical care of patients before, during, and after surgery.

**Lumen:** a cavity, channel, or partition within a tube. A three-lumen catheter would have a sealed, Y-shaped divider in it so three different liquids could run down the same tube into the same vein.

**Catheter:** a tube that can be inserted into a body cavity or vessel; has a port on one end so other tubes can be connected to it.

"**Intubated at 100 percent"** – Kim's breathing tube is giving her 100 percent oxygen

**Labs - **

**CBC**: Complete Blood Count; it literally counts the concentration of blood cells in a sample. It is broad screening test to check for anemia (low blood cell count), infections, and many other diseases.

**CMP**: Comprehensive Metabolic Panel**.** A standard suite of 14 to 20 blood tests which serves as an initial broad screening tool; provides an important baseline of a patient's basic physiology. Used as an important check of kidney function, liver function, electrolytes, protein levels, and indirectly as a check on fluid balance.

**PT**: Prothrombin Time. Measures how well the blood can clot and it is also used to help detect and diagnose a bleeding disorder. It is also often used to see how well a major blood-thinning medication (warfarin) is working to prevent blood clots.

**PTT**: Partial Thromboplastin Time. This is a second test measuring the blood's ability to clot, using a different biochemical pathway than the PT test. Detects abnormalities in blood clotting due to specific diseases, and is used to monitor the effects of heparin, another anti-clotting drug.

**Blood cultures times two: **When infection is suspected in the blood (sepsis), the infectious agent is identified by drawing blood and trying to grow the agent in the microbiology lab. The general rule is to draw two blood culture samples from two different sites on the body, thus the saying "blood cultures times two."

The reason for this is that one blood culture has a 65% chance of succeeding in growing the bug. Two independent cultures have a 90% chance, thus it is the standard. Three cultures have a 95% chance, but are usually not worth the time, except in some very special circumstances.

**D-dimer:** the most sensitive test available to measure the breakdown products of the "clotting cascade." It is mainly used to detect DIC, or Disseminated Intravascular Coagulation, a disorder that is usually lethal if left untreated. What happens is that the body's coagulation system is aberrantly triggered inside the vascular system to start clotting abruptly. At the same time the blood starts to clot, a counteracting mechanism is activated to "chew up" and dissolve the clot formed inside the blood vessels. This process scatters clot fragments, which can cause obstructions of blood flow, infarctions, heart attacks, strokes, and ironically, uncontrollable bleeding since the coagulation system is exhausted unnaturally. There are four major causes of DIC: massive tissue injury (such as wartime injury in the story), cancer, obstetrical disasters, and sepsis (widespread infection through the blood usually from gram negative bacteria, but any bug can do it).

**Fibrinogen**: a test to evaluate a body's ability to form a blood clot by measuring the level of fibrinogen, one of the major substrates of the coagulation system. It is often used in detecting coagulation abnormalities such as DIC (see above).

**Ventilator settings - **

**Vital capacity:** the capacity of the lungs in a normal breath. 600 cc is about 2/3 of a quart.

**Rate 20**: breathing rate is 20 breaths/minute

**FiO2:** the fractional increment of oxygen in the air being pushed into the lungs. A FiO2 of 1.0 equals 100% oxygen, and a FiO2 of 0.5 equals 50% oxygen. Normal oxygen concentration in the air is 21% (F-I-O2 .21).

**PEEP:** Positive End Expiratory Pressure. PEEP is used when the ventilator maintains a constant low level of increased air pressure in the lungs at all times. The machine pushes air into the lungs at the start of each breath, relieving much of the work the patient is unable to do and requiring much less exertion from the diaphragm to draw air inside.

PEEP itself is measured as the amount of pressure above normal required to elevate a 1 centimeter-diameter column of water up a number of centimeters. A PEEP of 5 means the pressure applied to the lungs is equal to the pressure required to push a 1-centimeter-diameter column of water upward 5 centimeters.

Usually, PEEP values range anywhere from 2.5 to 25. PEEPs above 25 have a high rate of causing a pneumothorax and can greatly interfere with breathing and blood return to the heart.

**ABG:** Arterial Blood Gas test. Used to measure the success and efficiency of the lungs to deliver oxygen to the blood and get rid of carbon dioxide.

**pH 7.28:** pH is a measure of the degree of acidity in the blood. In order for the life processes of the body to even work at all, and thus allow the organism to live, the pH must be maintained within a very narrow range. (The number itself is a logarithmic measure of the concentration of hydrogen atoms within a solution, in this case arterial blood.) Human serum must be maintained at a pH of 7.4. While _7.35 to 7.45_ is defined as the normal range, a severe problems develop if the pH is less than 7.15 or greater than 7.55.

**pO2 325: **pO2 is a measure of the "partial pressure of oxygen" that is dissolved into the serum and not deposited onto blood cells. There is a very close association between this partial pressure of oxygen in the serum and the actual saturation of blood cells with oxygen. Normal saturation is better than 90% in arterial blood, which occurs at a pO2 of 60 mm Hg (millimeters of mercury, which is essentially the same as centimeters of H20), usually shortened to pO2 60.

In this case, a pO2 of 325 indicates that a high concentration of oxygen (100%) is being artificially administered to the patient and the red blood cells can't absorb it all.

**pCO2 28: **Similar to pO2, pCO2 measures the partial pressure of carbon dioxide dissolved into the blood serum. A normal pCO2 is about 40.

If the lungs are working harder than normal to get rid of CO2 (such as in hypoxia, severe pain, hyperventilation, etc.), then the lungs will deplete the CO2 content in the blood faster than the body is creating it from its own metabolism, driving the pCO2 number downward. The number also goes down if the patient if breathing pure oxygen.

A higher number means the lungs are having problems getting rid of the CO2 the body is producing, as is the case with a gas exchange problem in the lungs (pneumonia, emphysema, pulmonary embolus, pulmonary edema, etc.).

**Bicarb 26: "**Bicarb**" **is a calculated value, not actually measured. It is a calculation of HCO3 (bicarbonate ions) in the blood and corresponds to the same number as the bicarbonate (which _is_ measured) on the CMP (see Labs, above). Normal levels are between 18 and 23; the high number in the story reflects the effects of stress and high oxygen levels, among other factors.

**Dopamine****: **a chemical related to the stress hormones norepinephrine and epinephrine (adrenalin). It given _only_ intravenously through a central venous line. Its purpose is to increase heart rate and blood pressure in a person whose blood pressure is absent or dangerously low, as in the case of severe hemorrhage, cardiac shock, septic shock, etc.

**Neosynephrine: **similar in purpose to dopamine, this drug acts on the vascular tree and makes blood vessels constrict, increasing blood pressure. It is also only given through a central venous line.

**20 mikes:** shorthand for 20 micrograms; equal to 0.02 milligrams. (Very tiny.)

**Sevoflurane:** a sweet-smelling, non-flammable, highly fluorinated methyl isopropyl ether used for the induction and maintenance of general anesthesia. It is often administered by inhalation in a mixture of nitrous oxide and oxygen.

**Transverse colon** – the longest and most movable part of the colon (large intestine); passes across the abdomen, just below the liver and stomach.

There are three sections of the colon. The first is the ascending colon, which joins with the small intestine and rises straight up on the right side of the body. It then turns sideways to become the transverse colon, which travels across the abdomen towards the left. Turning downward, it becomes, in an amazing burst of naming logic, the descending colon, which leads into the rectum and out.

**3-0 gut:** a "three ought" or 0-0-0 diameter suture thread. In the old days, intestinal material from cows and sheep was shaped into string and used as sutures because they were able to hold their ties for a long enough period to allow the sewn body parts to heal properly, yet because the sutures were made of biologic material, the body would eventually reabsorb them so they wouldn't be permanent.

Today, the threads are made synthetically, but the name "gut" stuck. The thickness of the suture string ranges from 5 -0 (0-0-0-0-0), which is the thinnest, to 1-0 (0), to 1, 2, or even 3 gut, which is thick and hard to work with. The most common diameters used, though, are 3-0 and 2-0.

**V-Fib** – Ventricular fibrillation. A life-threatening condition in which the electrical pulses driving the heart are disrupted, causing uncoordinated contraction of cardiac muscle in the heart, making them tremble and quiver rather than contract properly. No blood is pumped to the body. Electrical shocks are required to jolt the heart back into its normal rhythm.

**Asystole: **Called a "flatline" in common jargon, asystole is a state where there is no heart activity at all; there is no detectable electrical activity and no contractions. Defibrillation is useless in most cases and CPR must be used, sometimes followed by another cycle of defibrillation and other chemicals, even though the outlook is usually grim. Unless the condition can be reversed immediately, asystole is usually used to pronounce death.

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If there are other terms you think I should include, either from this chapter or from others, feel free to send me a PM.


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